THE 


VlLLIAHVARREM 


OF-STANDARD-PLAYS 


'A-SCRAP-OF 
PAPER 


VALTER  H  .BAKER  &  CO. 

•  HAMILTON  •  PLACE 

BOSTON 


Apple  Blossom  Tim« 


A  Comedy  in  Three  Acts 

By  Eugene  G.  Hafer 
Five  Men  Seven  Women  One  Interior  Set 

A  delightful,  swiftly  moving  comedy  with  rapid-fir* 
logue,  a  bright  and  merry  plot,  and  uproarious  corner 
uations.  When  Bob  Matthews  flees  to  the  crossroads  vil 
lage  and  assumes  the  name  of  Donald  Clark,  he  finds  tha 
he  has  also  assumed  the  guardianship  of  a  girl  who^n  h 
supposes  to  be  about  ten  years  old.  His  first  experience  ii 
the  village  is  a  violent  encounter  with  an  eighteen-year 
old  "  impudent  whirlwind  of  u  girl  "  who  upsets  his  dignity 
rouses  his  ire  to  the  boiling  point,  and  then  laughs  ,'ierl 
sively  at  his  threats.  Imagine  his  horrified  dismay  whe: 
he  finds  that  this  is  the  gfrl  over  whom  he  is  expected  t 
act  as  a  guardian.  With  this  beginning  the  plot  spin 
merrily  on.  Cal  the  village  constable's  attempts  to  cour 
Polly  Biddle,  the  cook;  Spud  McClosky  and  Micke 
Maguire's  race  for  the  hand  of  hom«ty  Malvina  Kurtz;  th 
loud-mouthed  Charlie  Lawrence  anlr  coy  Nancy  Lorett 
Harris,  the  prettiest  girl  in  the  village;  Annabel  Spriggin? 
the  village  old  maid-;  haughty  Mrs.  Forrest;  Bob  and  whir] 
wind  Betty  Ann — all  these  scenes  and  characters  furnis 
laughs  and  excitement  in  abundance. 

CHARACTERS 

Bob  Matthews,  an  unwilling  visitor  at  the  crossroads. 

Charlie  Lawrence,  his  go-getter  friend. 

Spud  McClosky,  direct  from  Sunshine  Alley. 

Mickey  Maguire,  also  from  Sunshine  Alley. 

Cal  Pickens,  the  village  constable. 

Betty  Ann  Stewart,  a  human,  little  whirlwind. 

Nancy  Presfcott,  a  pretty  neighbor. 

Loretta  Harris,  the  prettiest  girl  in  the  village. 

Polly  Biddle,  caretaker  of  Tad  Forrest's  home. 

Malvina  Kurtz,  whose  ambition  is  to  have  a  beau. 

Mrs.  Forrest,  the  haughty  sister-in-law  of  Tad  Forrest 

Annabel  Spriggins,  the  village  old  maid. 

TIME:     The  present.     The  month  of  May. 
PLACE:   Room  in  the  home  of  Tad  Forrest  at  the  crjs 
roads. 

Royalty  Only  Ten  Dollars 

Bach  Amateur  Performance 
Books  Fifty  Cents  Each 


A  Scrap  of  Paper 


A  Comedy  in  Three  Acts 


Translated  and  adapted  by 
J.  PALGRAVE  SIMPSON 

from  "  Pattes  de  Mouche  "  by 
VICTORIEN  SARDOU 


NOTE 

The  text  and  business  employed  in  this  version  follow 
the  usage  of  the  celebrated  Boston  Museum  Company. 


BOSTON 
WALTER  H.  BAKER  &  CO. 


f 

A  Scrap  of  Paper 


CHARACTERS 

As  first  performed  in  English  at  the  St.  James's  Theatre, 

under  the  Management  of  Mr.  Alfred  Wigan,  on 

Monday,  April  22,  1861. 

PROSPER  COURAMONT Mr.  A.   Wigan 

BARON  DE  LA  GLACIERE Mr.  Emery 

BRISEMOUCHE,  landed  proprietor  and  nat- 
uralist      Mr.  G.  Belmort 

ANATOLE,  his  ward      .     . Mr.  Ashley 

BAPTISTE,  servant Mr.  Terry 

FRANCOIS,  servant  of  Prosper     ....  Mr.  Lever 

LOUISE  DE  LA  GLACIERE Miss  Herbert 

MLLE.  SUZANNE  DE  RUSEVILLE,  her  cousin  Mrs.  A.  Wigan 

MATHILDE,  sister  to  Louise Miss  N.  Moore 

MADEMOISELLE   ZENOBIE,  sister  to  Brise- 

mouche Miss  Rainforth 

MADAME  DUPONT,  housekeeper    ....  Mrs.  Manders 

PAULINE,  maid Miss  Oesten 

TIME  OF  REPRESENTATION  : — Two  hours. 


COPYRIGHT,  1911,  BY  WALTER  H.  BAKER  &  Co. 


COSTUMES 

PROSPER  COURAMONT. — First  Dress  :  white  summer  suit, 
white  trousers.  Second  Dress  :  a  fur  coat  and  fur  cap,  then 
a  modern  gentleman's  suit. 

BARON  DE  LA  GLACIERE. — First  Dress  :  a  French  cap, 
knickerbocker  breeches,  gaiters,  and  a  shooting  coat.  Second 
Dress :  an  evening  dinner  dress. 

ANATOLE. — Straw  hat,  light  trousers,  and  a  velvet  coat. 

BAPTISTE. — French  servant's  livery. 

FRANCOIS. — Groom's  livery  coat,  white  breeches,  and  top 
boots. 

LOUISE  DE  LA  GLACIERE.  — First  Dress  :  an  elegant  morn- 
ing dress.  Second  Dress  :  an  evening  dress. 

MLLE.  SUZANNE  DE  RUSEVILLE. — First  Dress :  silk 
morning  dress,  scarf,  and  bonnet.  Second  J)ress  :  handsome 
evening  dress. 

MATHILDE. — First  Dress  :  riding  habit.  Second  Dress  : 
white  muslin  evening  dress. 

MADEMOISELLE  ZENOBIE. — First  Dress  :  modern  Spanish 
hat  and  feather,  dress  looped  up  over  petticoat,  and  balmoral 
boots.  Second  Dress  :  white  muslin,  and  a  mauve  sash. 

MADAME  DUPONT. — French  cap,  French  country  costume. 

PAULINE. — Servant's  dress. 


87478? 


INTRODUCTION 

"Pattes  de  Mouche  "  belongs  to  Sardou's  first  and,  as  many 
still  think,  his  best  period.  It  was  first  produced  in  Paris  in 
1861,  seven  years  after  the  author's  first  effort,  "Taverne  des 
Etudiants,"  was  hissed  at  the  Odeon.  That  event  was  fol- 
lowed by  several  years  of  silence  so  far  as  the  playhouse  con- 
cerned Sardou.  In  1859  the  great  Dejazet  took  the  author 
under  her  patronage,  rented  a  theatre  which  up  to  two  years 
ago  bore  the  name  of  Theatre  Dejazet — it  is  now  known  as  the 
Theatre  de  la  Republique — and  Sardou  became  a  success 
there  with  "  Armes  de  Figaro."  That  success  was  followed 
by  over-production,  twenty  plays  by  the  author  being  produced 
between  1860-1864.  Two  only  out  of  that  score  still  live — 
"  Pattes  de  Mouche  "  ("A  Scrap  of  Paper  ")  and  "  Nos  In- 
times  "  ("  Peril  ").  The  play  in  hand  had  its  first  presentation 
in  English  in  the  same  season  that  it  was  produced  in  Paris, 
— April  22,  1861,  at  the  St.  James's  Theatre,  and  the  cast  is 
preserved  as  interesting. 

Wigan,  who  was  the  first  Prosper  Couramont  in  London,  as 
Lester  Wallack  was  in  this  country,  was  for  a  quarter  of  a 
century  a  great  favorite  in  London.  Emery,  the  Baron  de  la 
Glaciere  of  that  cast,  was  the  father  of  Winifred  Emery  (Mrs. 
Cyril  Maude)  at  present  at  the  Haymarket,  London.  George 
Belmore  was  the  father  of  the  pretty  Bel  more  girl  who  came  to 
America  with  Wilson  Barrett. 

"  A  Scrap  of  Paper "  belongs  to  what  may  be  called 
Sardou's  "  Scribe  period."  It  is  ingeniously  built,  admirably 
adapted  to  the-^ettfr'Tneeds  but  neither  deep,  emotional,  nor 
genuinely  dramatic.  It  is  a  neat  model  of  a  well  built  comedy, 
— carpentered  rather  than  developed.  But  that  is  the  marked 
characteristic  of  Sardou,  whatever  period  you  study,  excepting 
always  what  even  Zola  calls  his  masterpiece,  "Le  Haine," 
which  is  quite  unknown  in  America. 

M.  A. 

September  26,  igro. 


C/  t  TORNIA 

A  Scrap  of  Paper 


paEs 


ACT  I 

Scene. — A  drawing-room  in  a  French  country  house ;  win- 
dows to  the  ground,  in  back,  looking  out  on  gardens  and 
park  ;  between  the  windows  a  fireplace  surmounted  by  a 
looking-glass  ;  on  either  side  of  the  glass  a  bracket,  within 
reach  of  the  hand,  the  one  R.,  supporting  a  statuette  of 
"Flora,"  the  other  L.,  empty  ;  door  R.  2  E.,  door  L.  2  E. 
Old-fashioned  furniture,  rich,  but  a  little  worn;  sofa  on 
either  side ;  at  L.  c.,  a  round  table,  with  a  lamp,  an  em- 
broidery frame,  a  book  and  other  objects  scattered  upon 
it  in  disorder ;  chairs.  The  window,  R.,  is  open  upon 
the  garden ;  the  window,  L. ,  is  at  first  closed  in  with 
barred  Venetian  shutters.  At  rise  of  curtain  BAPTISTE 
is  dusting  the  cushions  of  the  sofa  with  feather  duster  L.  j 
PAULINE,  R.,  is  rubbing  the  legs  of  an  old  armchair  with 
a  cloth  duster. 

LIVELY  music  at  rise 
of  curtain* 

PAUL,  (turning  round  the  chair  with  disdain).  Only  just 
look  at  it !  Did  you  ever  see  such  old-fashioned  rubbish  ? 
But  what  can  you  expect  in  the  country  ? 

BAP.  A  pretty  idea,  indeed,  of  master  to  come  down  for  his 
shooting  to  this  out-of-the-way  old  house,  when  I  had  made  up 
my  mind  to  take  him  to  Baden-Baden  for  my  lumbago. 

{Opens  window  shutter  R.  c.) 

PAUL,  (giving  up  work).     I've  enough  of  it  for  one — here 
we  have  been  at  it,  in  this  dust,  ever  since  five  in  the  morning. 
BAP.     Yes ;  and  after  a  whole  day's  railway  shaking. 

(Seated  R.,  on  sofa.) 

5 


6  "<#:  'SCR A  P  'OF  PA  PER 

PAUL,  (throwing hers^lf  into  armchairs,  c.).  Second-class, 
too  !  That's  ho#  poor  servants  are  treaced  ! 

Enter  MADAME  DUPONT,  L. 

MAD.  D.  Well,  I'm  sure  !  is  that  the  way  you  dust  the 
furniture  ? 

BAP.     No,  old  lady,  this  is  the  way  we  rest  ourselves. 

PAUL.     To  whom  have  I  the  honor  of  speaking? 

MAD.  D.  You  have  the  honor  of  (crossing  to  c.)  addressing 
yourself,  young  woman,  to  Madame  Dupont,  housekeeper  of 
the  chateau. 

BAP.  (R.).  Then  I  can't  compliment  you  on  your  house- 
keeping, old  lady.  I  should  say  this  room  has  never  seen 
duster  or  broom  on  it  for  the  last  two  years. 

MAD.  D.  (R.  c.).  You  are  out  there,  my  master — for  it's 
three. 

PAUL  '  (Iau8hin8)-  Three  years?  (Both  rise.) 
MAD.  D.  (c.).  Yes,  three  years  !  The  room  has  never 
been  opened  since  my  poor  old  mistress,  Madame  de  Merival, 
left  for  Paris,  to  take  her  daughter,  my  present  mistress,  to  be 
married  to  the  Baron  de  la  Glaciere.  She  gave  orders  that 
this  room  was  to  be  shut  up  until  she  came  back.  She  never 
did  come  back,  poor  soul  !  for  she  died  shortly  after  ma'm- 
selle's  marriage — three  years  ago.  However,  I  always  obey 
orders ;  and  not  a  thing  was  touched  till  my  lady's  sudden  ar- 
rival last  night,  when  she  ordered  all  the  house  to  be  ready  to 
receive  company  to-day — and  now  to  work. 
PAUL.  We'll  soon  finish  it  off. 

(She  begins  to  dust  the  statuette  Flora.) 

MAD.  D.  What  are  you  about?  You  mustn't  touch  that 
image. 

PAUL.  But  the  creature's  so  covered  with  dust  that  she's 
positively  not  decent. 

MAD.  D.  No  matter;  nobody's  allowed  to  touch  Flora, 
since  the  dreadful  misfortune  that  happened  to  Zephyr,  her 
sweetheart,  who  stood  opposite.  (Points  to  the  other  bracket.) 
He  was  smashed  to  bits,  poor  little  innocent.  And,  after  that, 
nobody  but  Mademoiselle  Louise  was  ever  allowed,  in  my  old 
lady's  time,  to  dust  the  Flora. 

PAUL.  Very  well,  then,  there's  nothing  more  to  do  here. 
I  shall  go  and  have  my  cup  of  chocolate. 


A   SCRAP  OF  PAPER  7 

BAP.  And  (crossing  to  L.)  I  to  see  after  my  medicated 
bath. 

PAUL.  (R.  c.).  And  I  to  my  Parisian  correspondence. 
{With  irony,  and  a  mock  courtesy.)  My  humble  respects, 
Madame  Dupont. 

BAP.  (likewise).     Housekeeper  of  the  chateau. 

Exeunt  servants,  R.   2  E.,  laughing.     BAP.   leaves  duster  on 
armchair  R. 

MAD.  D.  {picking  up  duster,  dusting  and  arranging). 
Ugh!  what  a  set!  "  My  chocolate:"  "my  medicated 
bath:"  "my  Parisian  correspondence."  A  pretty  pass  serv- 
ants are  come  to ! 

ANATOLE  has  entered  stealthily,  by  window  R.  c.  during  this, 
and  goes  down  L. 

AN  AT.  (mysteriously).     Madame  Dupont  1 

MAD.  D.  (R.).  Bless  me,  if  it  isn't  Master  Anatole !  and 
here  at  the  chateau. 

AN  AT.  (as  before}.     Has  she  come  down  yet  ? 

MAD.  D.     What,  my  lady  ? 

ANAT.     Oh  !  no  !  Mademoiselle  Mathilda. 

MAD.  D.  And  pray,  where  did  you  make  acquaintance 
with  Mademoiselle  Mathilde?  She  has  never  been  at  the 
chateau  since  she  was  a  little  girl — so  high. 

ANAT.  Oh  !  at  Paris — where  I  went  with  my  guardian, 
Monsieur  Brisemouche — you  know. 


(Puts  his  hat  on  table  L.) 


MAD.  D.  Yes— our  neighbor,  who  lives  in  the  villa  at  the 
end  of  the  avenue.  Why,  here  she  is— just  coming  in  from 
her  ride ! 

Enter  MATHILDE,  L.  c.,  by  window,  in  a  riding  habit  with 
whip  in  her  hand. 

MATH.  (L.,  saluting).  Health  and  greeting  to  Monsieur 
Anatole  ! 

ANAT.  (c.,  turning,  startled).  Oh,  Mademoiselle  Ma- 
thilde !  You  are  up,  then  ? 

MATH.     Up,  yes — up  in  my  saddle  two  hours  ago. 


8  A   SCRAP   OF  PAPER 

Crosses    and   gives    MAD.     D.    her    hat    and    whip.     Exit 
MAD.  D.,  R.  2  E. 

ANAT.  (L.,  eagerly).     Oh,  Mademoiselle  ! 

MATH.  (R.,  mimicking}.     Oh,  Monsieur  Anatole  ! 

ANAT.  I — I — (breaking  down},  I  hope  you  have  been 
quite  well  since  last  I  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you. 

MATH,  (as  before).  I — I — have  been  pretty  well,  I  thank 
you. 

ANAT.  There — you  are  making  fun  of  me  again,  as  you 
used  to  do  at  Paris. 

MATH.  Utterly  incapable  of  it,  I  assure  you.  Well — what 
have  you  been  doing  these  last  two  months  ? 

ANAT.     Doing  ?     Oh — nothing. 

MATH.     That's  not  much. 

ANAT.     Only  scribbling  a  few  poetical  effusions. 

MATH.     What  about? 

ANAT.     About  the  worst  you  ever  saw. 

MATH.     Oh  !  show  them  to  me ! 

ANAT.     I  dare  not. 

MATH.     Dare  not  ? 

ANAT.     No ;  they  contain  things  I  don't  wish  to  tell  you. 

MATH.     You  shan't  tell  them  me — I'll  read  them. 

ANAT.  Oh!  no;  you  might  be  angry,  and  I  couldn't  bear 
that ;  and  so  I'd  better — (taking  up  his  hat)  that  is  to  say-^ 
oh  ! — nothing  ! 

MATH.     Well,  if  you've  nothing  to  say,  I'd  better  go. 

(Passes  R.) 

ANAT.     But  I  have  a  thousand  things  to  say. 

MATH.  A  thousand  !  That's  nine  hundred  and  ninety- 
nine  too  many.  Don't  you  think  you  had  better  take  a  turn  in 
the  park,  just  *  to  pick  and  choose,  and  then,  when  you  come 
back,  you  can  say  something  like  this :  "  Mademoiselle  Ma- 
thilde — I  am  very  silly " 

ANAT.     Oh  !  Yes— I  know  that. 

MATH.  "  I've  been  expecting  the  arrival  of  a  young  friend — 
with  a  certain  degree  of  impatience  perhaps " 

ANAT.     Yes — reckoning  every  minute. 

MATH.  Very  well — "reckoning  every  minute;  and  now 
she  is  come,  I  don't  dare  to  say  what  I've  got  on  my  mind ; 
although  there  is  nothing  in  it  but  what  is  perfectly  proper  and 
correct." 


A  SCRAP  OF  PAPER  9 

ANAT.     Nothing,  I  swear  ! 

MATH.  Now,  that's  .what  you  had  better  go  and  repeat  to 
yourself  in  the  park ;  and  when  you  have  got  it  by  heart,  you 
shall  come  back  and  say  it  to  me;  and  we'll  see  then  whether 
I  shall  be  affronted  or  not.  Good-morning,  Monsieur  Anatole. 

Exit,  R.  door. 

ANAT.  Oh  ! — Mademoiselle  Mathilde  !  She  won't  stop. 
It's  all  over  now.  I've  said  it  at  last — that  is  to  say,  she  said 
it — but  it's  all  one.  1  never  thought  I  should  have  got  through 
my  declaration  so  cleverly.  Come,  there's  nothing  like  pluck, 
after  all !  (MADEMOISELLE  ZENOBIE  calls  without,  L.  c., 
"  Anatole— Anatole  /  ")  Oh,  Mademoiselle  Zenobie  !  with  my 
guardian — I  can't  face  them  now,  I  am  so  agitated. 

ANAT.   exits  by  one  window,  R.  c.,   as  ZENO.,  followed  by 
BRISEMOUCHE,  enters  at  the  other,  L.  c. 

ZENO.  (c.).     Anatole  !     Anatole  !  gone— escaped  ! 

BRISK.  (R.,  holding  a  butter  fly -net,  in  which  is  a  butterfly). 
No  such  thing.  I've  got  him — isn't  he  a  beauty  ? 

ZENO.     Anatole?     ( Crosses  to  R.) 

BRISE.  (L.).  No;  my  butterfly — a  remarkable  specimen,  my 
dear. 

ZENO.  Bother  your  butterfly  !  Brother,  brother,  I  tell  you, 
you  had  better  be  looking  after  that  flighty  boy  than  spending 
your  time  hunting  for  dirty  insects. 

BRISE.  (sitting  by  table,  L.).  My  precious  Zenobie,  ento- 
mology is  a  science  which  never  did  harm  to  any  living  creature. 

(Sticks  butterfly  with  a  pin  on  his  hat.) 

ZENO.  (snappishly}.  I  tell  you  once  more,  brother,  that  you 
don't  fulfil  your  duties  as  guardian  to  that  child. 

BRISE.     A  child  !  poor,  dear  little  baby  ! 

ZENO.  It  was  all  very  well  before  you  conceived  the  ridicu- 
lous idea  of  taking  the  boy  with  you  to  Paris. 

BRISE.     It  was  necessary,  my  dear,  for  his  law  business. 

ZENO.  And  putting  all  sorts  of  notions  into  his  head  by 
throwing  him  in  the  way  of  a  quantity  of  improper  Parisian 
flirts. 

BRISE.  I'm  sure  he  only  saw  the  best  of  company  at  Madame 
de  la  Glaciere's. 

ZENO.     Madame  de  la  Glaciere,  indeed  !     The  greatest  flirt 


10  A   SCRAP  OF  PAPER 

that  ever  existed  !  I'm  sure  she  got  herself  prettily  talked  of 
before  her  marriage — only  ask  that  absurd  friend  of  yours, 
Monsieur  Prosper  Couramont,  who  has  just  arrived  at  your 
house  from  Cochin  China  or  Nova  Zembla,  or  heaven  knows 
where.  (Sits  on  sofa,  R.) 

BRISE.  Well,  if  she  did  flirt  with  Prosper  a  little  before  he 
went  abroad,  it  was  before  she  was  married — what  of  that  ? 

ZENO.  What  of  that  ?  Flirting  is  flirting,  before  or  after ; 
and  she  and  her  Parisian  flighty  friend,  Mademoiselle  Suzanne, 
who  is  old  enough  to  know  better,  are  not  fit  associates  for  an 
innocent  boy  like  that. 

BRISE.  And  do  you  expect  that  he  is  to  be  an  innocent  boy 
all  his  life — tied  to  your  apron  strings  ?  I  was  an  innocent  boy 
once  myself,  and  I  am  now  a  devil  of  a  fellow 

ZENO.  Brother,  I  insist  on  you  holding  your  tongue  !  You 
know  you  are  going  to  say  something  shocking. 

BRISE.  Well,  there,  there !  We'll  get  him  well  married  to 
keep  him  out  of  harm's  way. 

ZENO.  Married  !  (Simpers.)  Well,  there  can  be  no  ob- 
jection to  that,  providing  we  find  him  a  fitting,  prudent  help- 
mate. 

BRISE.     The  truth  is,  I  have  an  idea 

ZENO.  You  ?  Nonsense  !  What's  your  idea,  I  should  like 
to  know  ? 

BRISE.     Well — no — I  haven't  an  idea. 

ZENO.  You've  got  some  foolish  notion  in  your  head.  Speak, 
sir — I  insist  on  it. 

Enter  PROSPER,  by  window,  R.  c.,  dressed  in  an  entire  white 
suit,  with  a  Chinese  parasol  over  his  head,  and  a  Chinese 
fan. 

PROSP.     Don't  speak,  Brisemouche  !     (Both  turn.) 

ZENO.  (sharply).     Sir! 

PROSP.  (c.).  Don't  speak,  I  tell  you  !  When  your  amiable 
sister  fails  in  violence,  she  will  have  recourse  to  the  charms  of 
oersuasive  seduction,  which  will  be  all  to  her  advantage, 

(Bows  to  ZENO.) 

BRISE.  (L.).     Oh!  oh!  as  to  seduction 

ZENO.  (R.).  Hold  your  tongue — you  are  going  to  say  some- 
thing shocking  again.  (To  PROSP.)  And  do  you  mean  to  say 
you  have  been  round  the  village  in  that  outlandish  garb  ? 


A   SCRAP  OF  PAPER  1 1 

PKOSP.  I've  been  round  the  world  in  it!  And  I  may  say 
triumphantly,  1  produced  the  most  striking  effect  just  now  on 
a  charming  girl  I  met  on  horseback — a  charming  girl !  She 
laughed  in  my  face  ! 

ZENO.  I  should  think  so,  with  that  parasol  and  that  fan  I 
Such  an  outrage  on  all  decorum  was  nevtr  seen  ! 

PROSP.     Very  frequently  at  Pekin. 

BRISE.     Yes,  among  such  savages  as  the  Chinese 

PROSP.  Savages  !  Listen  to  my  European !  He  thinks 
himself  the  great  lord  of  civilization  when  once  he  has  sneered 
out  the  word  "  savages."  Why,  man,  in  these  two  highly  civ- 
ilized countries,  China  and  Japan,  the  savage  would  be  you — 
with  your  whiskers  like  two  mutton  chops  on  either  side  of  your 
face,  and  your  chimney-pot  of  a  hat  on  your  head. 

BRISE.     I — a  savage? 

PROSP.  Yes — you — I — Mademoiselle — all  of  us — in  China  ! 
My  friend  'Brisemouche  doesn't  eat  hashed  puppy  dogs  and 
stewed  birds'  nests ;  but  he  devours  pickled  oysters  and  snails 
a  la  poulette.  My  friend  Mademoiselle  Zenobie  doesn't  pinch 
her  little  foot  in  a  shoe  the  size  of  a  walnut-shell ;  but  she 
pinches  her  waist,  and  sticks  out  her  dress  with  a  cage  of  crin- 
oline. I  don't  smoke  opium — but  I  smoke  twenty  cigars  a  day 
— ruin  my  pocket,  brutalize  my  faculties,  and  make  myself  a 
nuisance  to  every  delicate  rose.  Savages  all  of  us,  I  tell  you — 
savages  !  {Crosses  to  R.  C.) 

BRISE.  I  should  like  to  see  you  come  to  a  pitched  battle 
with  Mademoiselle  Suzanne  on  these  points ;  and  I'll  wager  she 
has  the  best  of  it.  I  know  her  arrival  here  is  expected  in  the 
course  of  the  day. 

PROSP.  And  pray,  who  is  this  redoubtable  Mademoiselle 
Suzanne  ? 

BRISE.  Mademoiselle  Suzanne  de  Ruseville,  cousin  to 
Madame  de  la  Glaciere,  and  godmother  to  her  young  sister 
Mathilde 

PROSP.     Godmother,  and  still  Mademoiselle  ?    {Back  to  c.) 

BKISE.  Although  mistress  of  a  large  fortune,  she  has  refused 
every  offer,  and  chosen  to  remain  single  from  the  sheer  love  of 
independence. 

ZENO.  Ridiculous  affectation  !  Don't  talk  of  her — she's 
highly  improper  ! 

BRISE.  At  any  rate,  though  she  does  live  in  the  midst  of  the 
best  Parisian  society  in  the  most  independent  style 

ZENO.     The  audacious  creature  ! 


12  A   SCRAP  OF  PAPER 

BKISE.  She  makes  a  better  use  of  her  freedom  than  most 
women  do  of  their 

ZENO.  Hold  your  tongue,  brother  !  You  are  going  to  say 
something  shocking. 

BRISE.  (seeing  the  BARON  DE  LA  GLACIERE,  L.  door).  Hush, 
hush,  my  dear  \  here  comes  our  host,  the  Baron  de  la  Glaciere 
— as  usual  all  life,  spirits,  and  gayety. 

Enter  the  BARON,  L.  door. 

ZENO.  (rising).  My  dear  Baron.  (Crosses  to  L.)  I'm  de- 
lighted to  see  you  !  How  is  your  dear  lady — slept  well,  I  hope, 
after  the  fatigues  of  her  journey  ? 

BARON  (cold  and  impassive).     Perfectly. 

BRISE.     Is  she  visible  yet  ?     (Rises  and  bows.) 

BARON.     Yes. 

BRISE.  We  will  go  and  pay  our  respects.  (Crosses  to  c.) 
Allow  me  to  present  to  you  my  friend,  Monsieur  Prosper  Cou- 
ramont,  who  is  staying  in  my  house.  He  wants  to  speak  to 
you  on  a  matter  of  considerable  importance. 

(PROSP.  and  the  BARON  bow.) 

BARON.     Very  well.     (Seated  R.  of  table  at  L.  c.) 

PROSP.   (aside).     It  isn't  a  man — it's  a  polar  bear  ! 

BRISE.  (R.  c.).  Come,  Zenobie,  you  know  when  men  want 
to  talk  in  private 

ZENO.  (L.  c.).  Silence,  you  were  going  to  say  something 
improper ;  you  know  you  were. 

Exeunt  BRISE.  and  ZENO.,  door  L.  2  E. 

BARON  (motioning  PROSP.  to  a  seat).  You  may  sit  down  if 
you  like. 

PROSP.  Thank  you.  (Sits  "L.  of  table.)  You  won't  think 
me  rude,  Baron,  if,  at  this  very  early  period  of  our  acquaint- 
ance, I  ask  a  favor  of  you  ? 

BARON.     Want  to  shoot  over  my  land  ? 

PROSP.  Not  exactly.  The  game  I  have  in  view  is  not  pre- 
cisely what  you  mean. 

BARON  (coolly).     Ah  ! 

PROSP.  I  am  a  queer,  frank  fellow,  and  I  always  go  straight 
to  the  point.  I  dare  say  you  will  be  surprised  to  hear  that, 
though  I've  come  all  the  way  from  the  other  end  of  the  world 
to  get  married,  it  is  nevertheless  very  much  against  my  will. 


A   SCRAP  OF  PAPER  13 

BARON  (as  before}.     Ah  ! 

PROSP.  Now,  I'll  tell  you  how.  1  am  the  only  heir  of  my 
uncle,  who  is  enormously  rich,  and  still  more  enormously 
obstinate.  I  have  always  been  a  sort  of  careless  devil,  and 
never  took  much  care  of  my  money — that  may  surprise  you. 

BARON.     Not  in  the  least. 

PROSP.  My  travels  round  the  world  have  played  the  deuce 
and  all  with  my  fortune ;  you  naturally  ask  why  I  should  have 
undertaken  them. 

BARON.     No,  I  don't. 

PROSP.  No?  Then  you  don't  want  to  know  how  the  cruel 
treachery  of  a  heartless  coquette  compelled  me  to  seek  oblivion 
on  the  stormy  brine  ? 

BARON.     No. 

PROSP.  No  ?  But,  of  course,  you  must  be  impatient  to  learn 
the  reasons  which  compel  me  to  marry. 

BARON.     No. 

PROSP.  You'll  excuse  me,  but  it's  indispensably  necessary 
you  should  be  impatient  to  learn  them,  or  else  I  shouldn't  have 
any  earthly  reason  for  telling  you  them. 

BARON  (coolly).     Very  well — I'm  all  impatience. 

PROSP.  Thank  you !  Your  obvious  impatience  I  will  re- 
lieve at  once.  About  a  month  ago,  after  tossing  more  or  less 
on  the  aforesaid  stormy  brine  for  the  space  of  three  years,  I 
knocked,  with  all  my  crocodiles,  stuffed  parrots,  and  pet 
monkeys,  at  the  door  of  the  uncle  I  just  mentioned.  He  lives 
about  a  mile  from  here,  in  a  sort  of  dilapidated  owl's  nest. 
"Ah,  you  vagabond,"  said  he,  "it  is  you,  is  it?"  "Yes," 
said  I,  "it  is."  "And  are  you  married  ?"  said  he.  "Mar- 
ried ?  "  said  I ;  "do  you  think  I  have  brought  home  the  queen 
of  the  Cannibal  Islands?"  "Heartless  ruffian,"  said  he; 
"  here  have  I  condemned  myself  to  the  miseries  of  celibacy, 
entirely  on  your  account,  expecting  you  to  marry  and  bring 
home  a  wife  to  make  my  gruel  for  me ;  and  you  persist  on 
leaving  me  a  solitary  anchorite  in  my  hermitage."  He  was 
speaking  of  the  owl's  nest — "  Go,"  said  he,  "  there  are  plenty 
of  charming  girls  in  the  neighborhood,  and  if  you  don't  present 
me  with  a  niece-in-law  in  six  months'  time,  I  will  marry  my 
maid-of-all-work,  and  cut  you  off  with  a  sou."  Now  what  do 
you  say  to  that  ? 

BARON.     Nothing. 

PROSP.  Nothing  ?  Very  well,  then — we  won't  say  another 
word  about  it.  Well,  I  at  once  took  up  my  quarters  at  the 


14  A  SCRAP  OF  PAPER 

house  of  Brisemouche,  your  neighbor,  who  always  has  a 
bachelor  den  ready  for  me.  I  told  him  my  dilemma,  and  he 
at  once  suggested  a  way  out  of  it.  He  described  your  charm- 
ing sister-in-law  as  just  the  wife  for  me — advised  me  to  pay  you 
a  visit,  make  your  acquaintance,  and  propose  for  the  young 
lady's  hand.  I  have  paid  you  a  visit,  made  your  acquaintance, 
and  I  hereby  propose  for  the  young  lady's  hand.  (Rises.) 

BARON.     Very  good. 

PROSP.     Well,  then,  what  do  you  say? 

BARON.     I  don't  say  "no." 

PROSP.     Then  you  say  "yes." 

BARON.     No. 

PROSP.     Then,  my  dear  sir,  what  the  deuce  do  you  say  ? 

BARON.  You  must  see  my  wife  and  her  sister — it's  their 
affair.  {Rings  bell  on  table  ;  rises.) 

PROSP.  So  be  it — I  had  the  honor  of  knowing  Madame 
de  la  Glaciere  before  her  marriage,  three  years  ago,  when  I 
was  staying  with  Brisemouche,  but  not  her  charming  sister, 
who  was  then  at  school. 

Enter  PAUL.,  R. 

BARON.     Tell  your  mistress  a  gentleman  requests  to  see  her. 
PROSP.     And  give  her  my  card  at  the  same  time. 

Exit  PAUL.  ,  L.  door  with  card. 

BARON.     Stop  to  lunch  if  you  like. 

PROSP.     Enchanted ! 

BARON.  Excuse  me  now — I  must  go  and  look  after  my 
dogs.  {Crosses  to  R.  c.)  We  have  a  shooting  party  after 
luncheon — you  can  come  with  us  if  you  like. 

Exit  by  window,  R.  c. 

PROSP.  Cordial  creature !  I  have  made  easy  work  of  the 
husband — and  now  for  the  wife.  {Crosses  c.)  His  wife! 
Louise !  Pretty  changes  three  years  have  brought  about ! 
Not  in  this  room,  though — it  looks  exactly  as  when  I  last  saw 
it — the  table — the  ornaments — the  same — and  the  very  same 
piece  of  embroidery.  {Takes  up  book  from  table  R.  c.) 
"  Genevieve  !  "  the  very  book  we  were  reading.  Why,  it's  the 
palace  of  the  sleeping  beauty  in  the  woods,  with  everything 
asleep  in  its  place. 


A  SCRAP  OF  PAPER  1 5 

Enter  the  BARONESS,  LOUISE  DE  LA  GLACIERE,  L.  door. 

LOUISE.     Till  you  come  to  wake  it  up,  my  fairy  Prince. 
PROSP.   (turning).     Louise!     {Checks  himself.)     Madam! 
LOUISE  (showing  card).     I  could  scarcely  believe  my  eyes 
when  I  read  this  well-known  name.     And  it  is  really  you? 

{Comes  down  L.  c.) 

PROSP.  Positively  I,  and  no  other — am  I  so  changed, 
then  ? 

LOUISE  (L.  c.).     Indeed  you  are  ! 

PROSP.  (R.  c.).  Frank,  at  all  events.  I  will  be  as  candid 
— time  has  passed  you  by. 

LOUISE.  As  gallant  as  ever,  I  see — but  you  are  wrong — I 
am  changed  entirely. 

PROSP.  Entirely?  What,  does  nothing  then  remain  of  the 
heart,  which  three  years  ago  promised  mine  so  bright  a  dream 
of  happiness  ? 

LOUISE.  Nothing  whatever — there's  not  a  scrap  of  my 
heart,  nor  a  thought  of  mind,  that  does  not  belong  to  its 
proper  owner. 

PROSP.     A  sad  change  indeed.     (Sighs.) 

LOUISE.  Now,  don't  sigh  in  that  silly  way,  my  dear  Pros- 
per. Our  idle  flirtation,  I'm  sure,  has  no  more  real  place  in 
your  heart  than  it  has  in  mine.  We  shall  always  be  good 
friends,  and  have  long  talks  about  your  travels,  and  so  on. 
And  now,  what  did  you  wish  to  see  me  about  ? 

PROSP.     About  my  marriage. 

LOUISE.     Marriage  !  tell  me  all  about  it — with  whom  ? 

(Sits  at  L.  of  table.) 

PROSP.  With  your  sister,  Mademoiselle  Mathilde  de  Meri- 
val. 

LOUISE  (amazed).     Mathilde  !  she's  a  mere  child. 

PROSP.  There  are  no  children  now,  madam,  except  babies 
in  arms. 

LOUISE.     But  she  doesn't  even  know  you. 

PROSP.  So  much  the  better — the  unknown  has  so  many 
charms.  (Sits  on  sofa  R.  c.) 

LOUISE.  How  do  you  know  but  what  she  may  love  some- 
body else? 

PROSP.     I  should  be  delighted  to  hear  it. 


16  A   SCRAP  OF  PAPEP 

LOUISE,     Delighted  ? 

PROSP.  Certainly,  my  dear  madam.  I've  been  in  China, 
and  know  something  about  teas — it's  a  capital  plan  to  pour 
boiling  water  on  the  tea  leaves,  in  order  to  open  them,  and 
then  throw  it  away — the  first  infusion  is  apt  to  be  bitter — the 
next  cup  is  sure  to  be  all  the  more  agreeable.  So  with  love, 
my  dear  madam, — throw  the  first  infusion  away,  and  the 
second  will  have  all  the  real  flavor. 

LOUISE.  You  are  not  so  much  changed  as  I  thought — you 
are  as  absurd  as  ever,»I  see. 

PROSP.     You  are  happy,  I  presume? 

LOUISE.  Perfectly  :  1  love  my  husband  devotedly — (rising) 
— and  if  I  have  a  regret,  it  is  that  I  should  have  deluded  my- 
self into  the  belief  I  ever  cared  for  another. 

PROSP.  (rising).  There,  you  see — you  have  flung  your  first 
infusion  away ;  and  the  matrimonial  cup  is  all  the  sweeter  for 
it.  Why  should  you  deprive  your  charming  sister  of  the  same 
advantage  ? 

LOUISE.  Prosper,  with  my  consent,  this  absurd  marriage 
never  shall  take  place.  I  was  a  silly,  frivolous,  foolish  coquette 
— if  you  will — when  first  I  knew  you,  sir.  Much  as  I  deceived 
myself  in  fancying  I  was  attached  to  you,  1  will  not  have  the 
remembrance  of  my  folly  forced  upon  me,  by  the  presence,  in 
my  family — before  my  husband's  eyes — of  one  whom  1  have 
ever  permitted  to 

PROSP.  Don't  stop — to  utter  words  of  love,  which  you  so 
sweetly  echoed. 

LOUISE  (angrily  at  first — then  calmly).  You  yourself  have 
proved  how  right  I  am.  Come,  come,  be  generous.  It  is  but 
little  I  ask  of  you.  You  do  not  even  know  my  sister — give  up 
the  idea  of  her,  and  leave  the  house ;  be  assured  I  shall  ever 
feel  for  you  the  truest  friendship. 

PROSP.     I  am  very  sorry — but  I  don't  believe  it. 

LOUISE.     You  don't  believe 

PROSP.  In  your  friendship — no — no  more  than  I  would 
counsel  you  to  believe  mine.  You  are  right  in  saying  that  what 
we  both  thought  love — yes — both — was  nothing  of  the  sort. 
But,  besides  wounded  affection,  there  is  such  a  thing  as 
wounded  vanity.  Three  years  ago  you  dropped  me  like  a  hot 
potato.  (PROSP.  advances  to  LOUISE  ;  she  retreats  to  L.)  That 
potato's  not  cold  yet — I  have  nursed  it  at  the  poles,  and  roasted 
it  at  the  tropics ;  the  ashes  of  wounded  vanity  still  glow  in  it ; 
and  nothing  but  revenge  can  quench  them. 


A  SCRAP  OF  PAPER  17 

LOUISE.     What  do  you  mean  ? 

(Sea fed  L.  c.,  takes  up  embroidery.) 

PROSP.  Everything  around  us  remains  exactly  as  when  we 
last  met.  It  will  require  the  very  smallest  effort  of  imagination 
on  your  part  to  believe  the  interval  of  three  years  only  one 
night — that  our  parting  was  but  yesterday.  Well — yesterday 
you  were  sitting  there  working  at  that  very  same  piece  of  em- 
broidery. (Seated  R.  c.)  I  was  sitting  here  reading  aloud  this 
identical  book ;  your  mother  dozed  in  yonder  armchair — but 
dozed  so  lightly  that  our  love  could  only  be  expressed  in  looks 
and  sighs,  and  little  notes  flicked  across  the  table — notes  that  I, 
poor  innocent  that  I  was,  never  failed  to  burn.  (Rises.) 
Look  !  even  our  beloved  post- box — that  statuette  of  Flora — is 
still  there,  as  it  was  there  years  ago — I  mean  yesterday.  Well, 
then — yesterday  evening,  Mademoiselle  Louise  de  Merival,  you 
left  me  with  the  sweet  consoling  words,  "  We  meet  again  to- 
morrow " — and  this  morning  I  find  you  Baroness  de  la  Gla- 
ciere.  You  must  admit  the  transformation  appears  rather 
abrupt. 

LOUISE.  And  whose  was  the  fault  ? — yours — and  yours 
alone  ! 

PROSP.     Mine  ? 

LOUISE.  Why  were  you  not  near  me  to  prevent  the  wicked 
Baron  from  carrying  me  off?  Where  were  you  ? 

PROSP.  Where  was  I  ?  On  leaving  you  last  night — three 
years  ago — instead  of  going  home  to  bed,  I  stayed  standing  on 
the  damp  grass  to  gaze  upon  your  window — I  had  lighted  a 
cigar  and  was  emitting  smoke  and  sighs  together,  when  all  at 
once  I  saw  a  little  bright  spot  before  me.  It  wasn't  a  glow- 
worm— it  was  another  cigar. 

LOUISE.     A  cigar ! 

PROSP.  Yes ;  with  a  man  behind  it — one  of  your  ardent 
admirers,  Monsieur  de  Reviere.  Mutual  surprise,  considerably 
augmented  by  the  discovery  of  a  third  bright  spot  !  It  was  a 
third  cigar — with  a  third  man  behind  it — Monsieur  de  Tonnere, 
another  of  your  ardent  admirers. 

LOUISE.     Ah !     (Rises.) 

PROSP.  Three  burning  hearts  offering  the  incense  of  their 
love  and  their  cigars  beneath  your  window  !  Stormy  explana- 
tions ensued ;  and  two  very  satisfactory  little  duels  were  the 
consequence. 

LOUISE.     Good  heavens !     (Sits.) 


1 8  A   SCRAP  OF  PAPER 

PKOSP.  De  Tonnere  contrived  to  give  me  a  lunge  through 
the  arm,  which  caused  me  to  be  carried  home  fainting,  and  put 
to  bed  in  a  state  of  high  fever  and  delirium — and  there's  where 
I  was. 

LOUISE.     But  my  letter  must  have  explairied 

PROSP.     Your  letter  ? 

LOUISE.  Yes — the  letter  that  I  wrote  to  tell  you  of  my  mother's 
determination  to  start  for  Paris  at  daybreak — to  marry  me  to 
the  Baron  de  la  Glaciere.  I  scarce  know  what  I  wrote ;  but 
you  must  know — you  must  remember. 

PROSP.  Upon  my  honor,  this  is  the  first  word  I  have  heard 
of  it. 

LOUISE.  Do  not  say  that.  I  came  down  here  by  stealth  to 
place  the  letter  in  the  usual  spot — certain  that  you  would  seek, 
and  find  it  there,  the  next  morning. 

PROSP.  But  the  next  morning  I  was  in  a  bed  with  a  high 
fever,  I  tell  you. 

LOUISE  (rising,  alarmed).  But  if  you  did  not  take  it,  who 
did  ?  Where  can  the  letter  be  ? 

PROSP.     Where  it  was,  perhaps — inside  the  Flora  ! 

LOUISE.     Yes — this  room  has  never  been  opened  since 

PROSP.     Then  the  letter  must  be  still  there. 

{Both  turn  and  look  at  Flora) 

LOUISE.     I  scarce  dare  look. 

PROSP.     Never  mind,  I  will.     (Starts  calmly  up  stage.) 

LOUISE  (eagerly).     No!     I — I.     (They  both  go  up  to  Flora.) 

Enter  the  BARON  by  R.  c.  window. 

PROSP.  (turning  sharply,  with  coolness.  LOUISE  comes 
down  to  C.).  Your  dogs  are  all  right,  my  dear  sir? 

BARON.  All  right  {Crosses  to  c.,  to  LOUISE,  who  is  trans- 
fixed with  alarm.)  What's  the  matter? 

LOUISE  (L.  c.).     Nothing. 

BARON  (c.).     You  seem  agitated. 

PROSP.  (R.  c.).  Yes;  the  subject  of  our  conversation— the 
object  of  my  interview — was  of  a  nature  to 

BARON.     Oh  !  exactly — your  offer. 

PROSP.     Precisely  so.   • 

BARON  (A?  LOUISE).     Well? 

PROSP.     Well,  it  appears  it's  a  settled  affair. 


A   SCRAP  OF  PAFER  19 

LOUISE.  I  have  convinced  Monsieur  Couramont  that  there 
are  serious  obstacles  in  the  way. 

BARON.     Ah ! 

PROSP,  I  beg  your  pardon  !  Obstacles  to  me  are  only 
stimulants. 

Enter  MATH.,  door  R.  c.  from  L.,  followed  by  ZENO.,  and 
AN  AT.,  and  BRISE.,  who  crosses  over  to  R.  ANAT.  and 
ZENO.  stand  disputing  at  table  L.  c. 

MATH,  (crossing  to  L.,  and  kissing  LOUISE).  Good-morn- 
ing, sister  dear  ! 

PROSP.  (R.,  aside}.  Sister!  She!  My  enchanting  horse- 
woman of  this  morning  !  (Aloud.)  No,  no;  unless  the  lady 
herself  objects,  I  shall  endeavor  to  stand  my  ground. 

BARON.     Quite  right — try  your  luck. 

j 

(Goes  up  L.,  with  MATH.) 

LOUISE  (low  to  PROSP.).  This  is  neither  delicate  nor  gen- 
erous of  you  :  but  at  the  same  time,  it  is  perfectly  useless,  be- 
lieve me.  (  Goes  up  c.  to  MATH.  ) 

ZENO.  (to  ANAT.  ;  apart).  I  forbid  you  to  say  one  word 
to  that  Mademoiselle  Mathilde,  sir.  {Takes  ANAT.  up  R.  c.) 

BRISE.  (coming  down  to  PROSP.).  Well,  how  do  you  get  on  ? 
What  does  the  Baroness  say  to  your  suit  ? 

PROSP.  (R.  c.).  She  has  declared  against  me.  But  I  defy 
her.  Brisemouche,  did  you  ever  see  two  men  aim  at  one  part- 
ridge? That's  exactly  what  I  and  the  Baroness  are  doing. 
The  partridge  is  there  ? 

BRISE.  (R.).     A  partridge  !     Where? 

PROSP.  (turning  and  seeing  LOUISE  on  the  point  of  raising 
up  the  statuette  of  Flora).  By  Jove  !  she's  going  to  bring  it 
down  ! 

Enter  MADEMOISELLE  SUZANNE  DE  RUSEVJLLE  through  win- 
dow, R.  c. 

Suz.     Here  I  am  at  last ! 

{Everybody  turns  round;  LOUISE  is  obliged  to  put  down  thi 
statuette.) 

BRISE.  (R.).     Mademoiselle  de  Ruseville  ! 

LOUISE.     Suzanne  !      (They  embrace  at  c.) 

MATH.  (L.  c.).     Ah,  my  dear  godmother  1     {Kisses  her.) 


20  A   SCRAP  OF  PAPER 

PROSP.  (R.,  while  LOUISE  embraces  Suz.).  She  has  missed 
this  time.  Now  it's  my  turn  ! 

{Begins  working  his  way  up  stage.) 

Suz.  (kissing  LOUISE  and  MATH.).  How  d'ye  do— how 
d'ye  do? 

MATH.     I'll  see  that  your  room  is  ready. 

Exit,  L.  door.     BARON  comes  down  L. 

Suz.  How  do  you  do,  cousin?  (To  BARON,  L.)  You 
know  you  are  a  bear — but  I'll  allow  you  to  hug  me  for  once  in 
a  way.  (BARON  kisses  Suz.'s  cheek  and  crosses  to  R.)  Ah, 
Monsieur  Brisemouche  ! 

BRISE.  (R.,  presenting  ANAT.,  who  is  at  L.  c.).  My  young 
ward,  whom  I  think  you  met  in  Paris. 

ZENO.  (L., plucking  ANAT.,  who  is  advancing  toward 'Suz.). 
Come  away,  sir,  the  impudent  creature  may  want  to  kiss  you 
next! 

Suz.  {pulling  ANAT.  toward  her).  Now  you  shall  see  how 
I'll  make  the  dear  boy  blush  !  {Offers  her  hand,  which  he  is 
obliged  to  kiss.)  There !  Didn't  I  tell  you  he'd  blush  ? 
(Bows  to  ZENO.)  Mademoiselle  Zenobie,  as  fresh  as  ever, 
I  see. 

ZENO.  (L.,  courtesying  stiffly}.     Mademoiselle! 

(She  pulls  ANAT.  away  and  takes  him  up  stage  to  scold  him. 
She  sits  L.  of  fireplace  with  ANAT.  on  a  footstool  beside 
her.} 

LOUISE  (R.  c.,  turning  and  seeing  PROSP.,  who  has  gone  up, 
and  at  that  moment  has  his  hand  on  .Flora).  Monsieur 
Couramont ! 

PROSP.   (R.).     Missed  ! 

LOUISE  (presenting  PROSP.  eagerly,  so  as  to  oblige  him  to 
come  down).  Monsieur  Prosper,  allow  me  to  present  you  to 
Mademoiselle  de  Ruseville. 

Suz.  (c.).  Delighted  !  (Looks  at  both  of  them,  aside) 
Hum  !  hum  !  there's  something  going  on  here  ! 

(Crosses  and  sits  R.  of  table  at  L.  BRISE.  R.,  BARON  by  his 
side.  R.  ANAT.  and  ZENO.  up  stage ;  LOUISE  goes  slowly 
up  stage.) 


A  SCRAP  OF  PAPER  ,    21 

PROSP.  (c.).  I  have  long  been  desirous  of  being  introduced 
to  you,  Mademoiselle., 

Suz.     You  are  fond  of  curiosities,  I  believe  ? 

BRISE.  He  has  collected  them  from  all  parts  of  the  world. 
He's  a  mighty  traveler 

Suz.  A  man's  happy  privilege  !  How  is  a  poor  woman 
to  scamper  over  the  world  in  steel  hoops  and  crinoline  petti- 
coats ?  What  is  the  greatest  curiosity  you  have  seen  in  the 
world  ? 

PROSP.     The  greatest  curiosity  ?     Woman,  of  course ! 

Suz.     It  seems  you  have  studied  the  animal. 

PROSP.     Yes,  as  Brisemouche  does  insects  and  reptiles. 

Suz.     I  hope  you  have  not  found  any  venomous  specimens. 

PKOSP.  Sometimes — and  they  are  generally  the  fairest  to 
the  eye.  (  Turns  to  look  at  LOUISE,  and  sees  her  about  to  take 
down  the  Flora — aside.)  She's  at  it  again  !  (Aloud.}  I  was 
just  making  that  identical  remark  to  Madame  de  la  Glaciere — 
wasn't  I?  (By  directly  addressing  LOUISE  he  forces  her  to 
drop  the  Flora,  which  she  has  just  lifted  and  come  down.  He 
offers  her  a  chair  by  table  L.,  and  thus  obliges  her  to  sit.)  I 
was  comparing  woman  to  a  bird  with  a  sharp  beak,  long  claws, 
and  varied  plumage,  which  it  is  always  striving  to  show  off  to 
the  best  advantage,  and  moults  at  every  caprice  of  fashion. 

Suz.  Indeed  !  And  would  you  speak  in  that  tone  of  your 
mother,  or  your  sister,  or  your  wife  ? 

PROSP.     I  haven't  either. 

Suz.  Then,  that's  the  reason  you  are  so  deficient  in  your 
knowledge  of  natural  history. 

PROSP.  But,  my  dear  madam,  the  exception  only  proves 
the  rule. 

READY  luncheon  bell  at  L. 

Suz.  But,  my  dear  sir,  the  rule  is  wholly  made  up  of  ex- 
ceptions. 

PROSP.     Well,  I  confess  I  believed  in  exceptions,  until . 

Suz.     Until  what  ? 

PROSP.  Until  two  or  three  pleasant  attempts  were  made  to 
poison  me.  Since  then,  even  in  our  civilized  country,  where 
poisons  take  the  shape  of  perfidy  and  breach  of  faith,  I  have 
sworn  never  to  be  without  an  antidote. 

BRISK.     Bless  my  soul  !     An  antidote  !     Of  what  nature? 

PROSP.  Oh  !  the  merest  trifle,  sometimes,  is  enough — a 
mere  scrap  of  paper,  perhaps — a  morsel  of  handwriting. 


22   X;  A   SCRAP  OF  PAPER 


.  (aside).  He  means  some  letter.  Hum  !  hum  1  What 
sall  this? 

BRISK.  Fie,  fie  !  you  wouldn't  use  such  a  weapon  against  a 
woman. 

PROSP.  I  would — as  a  shield — not  a  sword.  Such  a  sys- 
tem is  permissible  by  the  moral  code  of  every  nation. 

BRISK.  There  !  we  shall  have  him  citing  his  darling  Chinese 
now. 

PROSP.  Why  not  ?  They  are  our  superiors  in  many  things 
— their  porcelain,  for  instance.  Now,  compare  with  Chinese 
works  of  art  (looking  about,  and  as  if  suddenly  seeing  the  Flora 
for  the  first  time),  this  little  Sevres  ornament,  for  instance. 
(To  LOUISK.)  It  is  a  statuette  of  Flora,  I  perceive. 

(Goes  coolly  up  and  puts  his  hand  on  the  Flora.) 

LOUISE  (rising  and  following  him,  alarmed).     Stop,  sir  1 

(PROSP.  takes  the  Flora  ;  both  come  down  c.) 

PROSP.     Don't  be  alarmed,  madam.     I  know  all  its  value. 

LOUISK  (trying  to  stop  him).  Give  it  to  me — it's  covered 
with  dust. 

PROSP.  (R.  C.).  Don't  give  yourself  the  trouble.  (Aside.) 
I  feel  the  letter. 

LOUISE  (c. ,  trying  to  dust  it  with  her  handkerchief  ).  Allow 
me,  with  my  handkerchief 

PROSP.     No,  no  !     I'll  blow  on  it — that  will  do. 

(Turns  away  as  if  to  blow  the  dust  off  the  statuette.') 

Suz.  (rising  and  seizing  the  hand  of  LOUISE  to  stop  her ; 
apart).  Your  husband's  eyes  are  upon  you. 

LOUISK.     Oh  !  did  you  but  know!     (The  letter  falls.)    Ah! 

(PROSP.  puts  his  foot  hastily  on  the  letter.) 

Suz.  (aside,  L.  c.).     A  letter  !     I  was  sure  of  it ! 

PROSP.  (giving  the  Flora  to  LOUISE  with  elaborate  polite- 
ness). It  is  evident  you  set  great  store  by  this  little  ornament, 
madam. 

LUNCHEON  bell  off  L. 

LOUISE  (low  to  him).  What  you  are  doing  is  shameful, 
sir! 


A  SCRAP  OF  PAPER  23 

Enter  MATH.,  L.  door. 

MATH.     Luncheon  is  ready. 

BRISK,  (getting  up).     I'm  not  sorry  to  hear  it. 

ANAT.   (rising  hastily,  and  trying  to  get  away  from  ZENO.) 
No !  nor  I. 

ZENO.  (apart,  to  ANAT.).  I  forbid  you  to  sit  by  the  side  of 
that  Mademoiselle  Mathilde. 

ANAT.     But  I 

ZENO.     I  forbid  you,  I  say. 

MATH,  (seizing  hold  of  ANAT.).  You'll  give  me  your  arm, 
Monsieur  Anatole  ? 

ZENO.     I  forbid  you. 

MATH,  and  ANAT.  run  L.  E.,  and  ZENO.,  turning ;  finds  her- 
self opposite  to  the  BARON,  who  offers  her  his  arm  form- 
ally ;  she  is  obliged  to  accept ;  LOUISE,  unwillingly ',  takes 
the  arm  of  BRISE.,  and  keeps  looking  back  at  PROSP.  as 
they  exeunt  at  L. 

Suz.  (to  PROSP.,  who  never  stirs,  and  stands  with  his  foot 
on  the  letter).  My  dear  sir,  don't  you  mean  to  offer  me  your 
arm? 

WARN  curtain* 

PROSP.  I  beg  your  pardon,  but  I've  let  fall  my  handker- 
chief. 

(Lets  fall  his  handkerchief,  and  picks  up  the  letter  with  it.) 

Suz.  (low  to  him).  Come,  come  !  Give  it  up  like  a  gentle- 
man. 

PROSP.  (low  to  her).     Give  up  what? 

Suz.     The  letter. 

PROSP.     My  antidote?    No,  I  thank  you. 

Suz.     I'll  make  you  give  it  up. 

PROSP.     I'll  bet  you  anything  you  like,  you  won't. 

Suz.     I'll  bet  you  anything  you  like,  I  will. 

BARON  (coming  back).     Are  you  coming,  you  two? 

PROSP.   (aloud).     Deign  to  accept  my  arm,  madame. 

Suz.  So  you  are  a  collector  of  curiosities?  I  think  I  shall 
be  able  to  show  you  a  few  curious  matters  which  may  astonish 
you,  great  traveler  as  you  are  ! 

PROSP.  (laughing).     In  instruments  of  warfare  ? 

Suz.     In  instruments  of  warfare  !     Have  you  ever  met  with 


24  A   SCRAP   OF  PAPER 

any  Amazons  in  your  travels  ?  They  say  it  is  a  fabulous  race 
— not  quite,  my  dear  sir;  not  quite,  I  can  assure  you — I'm  an 
Amazon  ! 

RING  curtain. 

Only,  nowadays  people  call  us  old  maids,  bluestockings,  or 
strong  minded  women !  ( They  go  up  toward  L.  door,  laugh- 
ing.) 

QUICK  DROP 
END  OF  ACT  I 


ACT  II 

Scene. — Room  assigned  to  PKOSP.,  ///  the  House  of  Brise- 
mouche.  Window  in  flat ;  R.  4  E.,  a  door  to  bed- cham- 
ber, rendered  almost  invisible  by  being  covered  with  a 
screen.  R.  2  E.,  a  fireplace  and  wood-fire.  Upper  R. 
corner  an  Egyptian  mummy  case,  and  other  curiosities. 
L.  3  E.,  a  high  glazed  case  full  of  natural  curiosities. 
L.  2  E.,  a  door.  R.  3  E.,  a  smaller  door.  On  all  sides, 
maps,  exotic  plants,  stuffed  animals,  Eastern  weapons, 
and  ornaments,  pipes,  porcelain  vases,  traveler* s  tent, 
etc.,  etc.  ;  Indian  grass,  mats,  and  skins  of  wild  beasts 
on  the  floor.  R.  c.,  a  large  table  with  casket,  books,  an 
album,  an  ink-stand,  a  great  tobacco  jar,  letters,  visititig- 
cards,  etc.;  another  table  covered  with  curiosities,  L.  c. 
Armchairs,  rocking-chairs,  stools,  etc.  PROSP.  is  seated 
in  an  easy -chair,  R.,  between  table  and  fireplace,  wrapped 
in  a  fur  dressing-gown,  with  a  fox- skin  capon  his  head. 

PROSP.  A  pretty  climate,  upon  my  word  !  There's  no  sense 
about  it !  Before  luncheon  it  was  as  hot  as  Calcutta,  and  now, 
later  in  the  afternoon,  it  is  as  cold  as  Siberia!  (Throws 
another  log  on  the  fire.)  I  can't  stand  caprice  even  in  the 
weather.  The  male  beings  are  out  shooting.  I  wish  them  joy 
of  their  sport.  (  Warms  himself  at  fire.  FRANCOIS  enters  at 
door  L.  2  E.)  What  do  you  want?  Come  in,  do — and  shut 
the  door  !  I  didn't  ring. 


A   SCRAP  OF  PAPER  2$ 

FRAV.  (crossing  to  R.,  and  passing  letter  to  PROSP.).  A 
letter  for  you,  sir.  The  messenger  waits  for  an  answer. 

PROSP.  (taking  the  letter}.  Ah  !  from  my  uncle  again  ?  I 
know  his  letter  by  heart  before  I  read  it — every  day  the  same 
story  !  "  Heartless  reprobate  !  Where  is  your  wife  ?  "  (Reads.) 

Of  course — "Heartless  reprobate!  Where  is "  The 

twentieth  edition,  neither  amended  nor  corrected.  (Throws 
letter  into  the  fire.)  Say  that  I'll  be  with  him  in  less  than  an 
hour,  and  have  my  horse  saddled.  (Exit  FRAN.,  door  L.  2  E.) 
I  can  be  there  and  back  again  in  less  than  no  time  !  I'll  see 
the  precious  old  gentlemen  myself,  and  tell  him  I've  found  a 
wife — a  charming  wife — a  delicious  little  wife  !  (Rising,  goes 
to  L.  of  table,  and  rolls  a  cigarette.)  I'll  win  her  spite  woman's 
wit  and  woman's  wiles.  Ah  !  you  defy  me  to  mortal  combat, 
do  you,  Mademoiselle  Suzanne  ?  You  want  to  steal  my  anti- 
dote, do  you,  Mademoiselle  Suzanne? 

READY  knock  L.  2  E. 

Possession  is  nine  points  to  the  good  for  me;  but  how  to 
keep  possession?  The  lining  of  my  hat  was  a  good  place 
of  concealment,  but  I've  had  a  warning  in  hat  linings. 
I  once  slipped  a  billet  doux  into  my  hat,  left  it  on  a  ferocious 
brother's  table;  he  picked  it  up,  thought  it  was  his  own,  and 
has  worn  my  letter  on  his  head  ever  since.  My  own  room 
was  the  place — but  locks  are  not  to  be  trusted,  and  serv- 
ants still  less.  My  casket,  to  be  sure,  has  a  secret  spring,  but 
caskets  can  be  carried  off  bodily.  I  dare  say  some  people 
might  think  it  the  simplest  affair  in  the  world  to  hide  a  scrap 
of  paper.  No  such  thing  !  It  was  a  problem — the  knottiest  of 
problems — and  I  consider  that  I  made  a  stroke  of  genius  by 
concealing  my  prize  in 

KNOCK  L.  2  E. 

Who's  there?  Come  in.  (Enter  ANAT.,  door  L.  2  E.)  Oh  ! 
it's  you,  my  young  friend  !  You  are  not  out  shooting  with  the 
other  gentlemen,  then  ? 

ANAT.  (L.,  awkward  and  embarrassed,  but  trying  to  put  on 
a  dignified  air).  No,  sir. 

PROSP.  Mademoiselle  Zenobie  was  afraid  of  your  meeting 
with  some  accident  probably.  All  right !  Sit  down.  Take  a 
cigar  ? 


26  A   SCRAP  OF  PAPER 

ANAT.  (as  before).     I  thank  you,  sir;  I  don't  smoke. 
(Sits  awkwardly  R.  of  table,  L.) 

PROSP.  (sitting  L.  of  table,  R.).  Ah  !  to  be  sure !  Made- 
moiselle Zenobie  objects  to  smoking. 

ANAT.  The  fact  is,  sir,  I  am  not  here  for  the  purpose  of 
smoking,  but  of  having  a  serious  conversation  with  you. 

PROSP.     Indeed  ! 

ANAT.  1  have  learned  by  chance  from  my  guardian  this 
morning  that  you  have  asked  the  hand  of  Mademoiselle  Ma- 
thilde  de  Merival  in  marriage. 

PROSP.     Quite  true ;  what  then  ? 

ANAT..  Why  then,  sir,  I  beg  to  inform  you  that  I  am  in  love 
with  Mademoiselle  Mathilde,  and  that  my  most  ardent  desire 
is  to  make  her  my  wife. 

PROSP.  That  is  to  say,  if  Mademoiselle  Zenobie  does  not 
object. 

ANAT.  Mademoiselle  Zenobie  has  nothing  to  do  with  it,  sir. 
It  is  an  affair  between  you  and  me.  Will  you  have  the  kind- 
ness to  tell  me  whether  you  still  persist  in  your  intention  ? 

PROSP.  (aside).  Poor  boy !  (Aloud.)  My  reply  will  be 
brief — yes. 

ANAT.     Well,  then,  sir,  you  know  the  consequences. 

PROSP.     You  don't  mean  a  duel  ? 

ANAT.     I  do.     What  else  should  I  mean  ? 

PROSP.  Very  well.  But  as  there  are  several  ways  of  duelling, 
may  I  ask  which  you  prefer  ? 

ANAT.     I  give  you  the  choice,  sir. 

PROSP.  Thank  you.  I  own  I  have  a  sort  of  weakness  for 
the  Japanese  fashion 

ANAT.  {getting  up).  The  Japanese  fashion  by  all  means ! 
I  shall  have  the  honor  of  sending  you  my  second 

PROSP.  Oh  !  quite  unnecessary  !  The  affair  can  be  settled 
at  once. 

ANAT.  {pulling  off  his  gloves).  Such  a  proceeding  is  con- 
trary to  all  established  rules — but  no  matter — I'm  your  man  ! 

PROSP.  (rising,  takes  two  Malay  daggers  «/ L.,  and  comes 
down  c.,  at  R.  of  ANAT.,  and  presents  them  politely).  Here 
are  the  tools  for  the  job.  Take  your  choice  ! 

ANAT.     One  of  these  ? 

PROSP.  Of  course.  (ANAT.  takes  one.)  You  have  taken 
the  biggest — but  never  mind.  And  now  (sitting  down  atR.  C.) 
you  are  the  challenging  party ;  have  the  kindness  to  begin. 


A   SCRAP  OF  PAPER  27 

AN  AT.  (turning  in  an  attitude  of  defense,  and  surprised  at 
teeing  PROSP.  quietly  seated}.  Begin!  How? 

PROSP.   (coolly).     By  ripping  yourself  up. 

ANAT.     Rip  myself  up  ? 

PROSP.  Yes,  it's  the  Japanese  manner  of  proceeding.  They 
call  it  "  the  happy  dispatch."  The  challenger  rips  himself  up 
first,  and  then  the  challenged  is  bound  in  honor  to  follow  his 
example.  Proceed — I'll  follow  you  immediately  ! 

ANAT.  I  am  not  to  be  made  game  of,  sir !  We  are  in 
France  here,  not  in  Japan ;  and  your  fashion  is  utterly  absurd. 

PROSP.  My  dear  fellow,  the  whole  fashion  of  duelling  is  ut- 
terly absurd.  In  the  first  place,  if  we  fought  in  the  usual  man- 
ner /  should  kill  you  to  a  dead  certainty. 

ANAT.     Sir ! 

PROSP.  Oh  !  I  should,  I  give  you  my  word  !  And  then 
you  couldn't  prevent  my  marrying  the  lady.  But  if  you  rip 
yourself,  and  I  have  to  do  the  same,  you  won't  marry  her  to 
be  sure — but  you'll  have  the  pleasure  of  knowing  that  I  can't 
either 

READY  knock  L.  2  E. 

ANAT.     You  are  treating  me  like  a  child,  sir  ! 

PROSP.  (rising  and  holding  out  his  hand).  Say  rather,  like 
a  friend.  Come,  my  dear  boy,  let  us  fight  out  our  fight  after 
a  more  sensible  manner — with  our  own  stout  hearts  and  mother- 
wits.  (Returns  swords  to  L.,  and  comes  back  as  he  talks  to 
R.  c.)  You  say  you  love  Mademoiselle  Mathilde — so  far  so 
good.  For  aught  I  know,  she  may  be  very  fond  of  you — so 
much  the  better.  But,  at  the  same  time,  allow  me  to  flatter 
myself  that,  if  you  have  made  an  impression,  it's  just  possible  I 
may  do  so  too,  especially  as  you  haven't  your  guardian's  con- 
sent to  the  marriage — and  what's  more,  never  will  have. 

ANAT.     Never  will  have  !     Why  ? 

PROSP.  (laughing).     Why! 

KNOCK  L.  2  E* 

ZENO.  (without,  knocking  at  door  L.  2  E.).  Monsieur 
Prosper ! 

PROSP.  (laughing  and  pointing  at  door).  That's  why  !  But 
I'll  be  off — I  can't  show  myself  to  ladies  in  this  trim. 

(  Up  stage  to  R.) 


28  A   SCRAP  OF  PAPER 

ZENO.   (without).     May  we  come  in  ? 
PROSP.     Come  in,  by  all  means  ! 

Exit  into  bedroom,  R.  4  E.,  as  enter  ZENO.  and  MATH.,  door 
L.  2  E.     ANAT.  up  stage  to  R. 

ZENO.  (at  c.,  looking  round).  Well,  where  is  Monsieur 
Prosper  ? 

PROSP.  {from  his  room).  I'm  here  !  I  beg  pardon — I 
was  dressed  like  a  wild  Indian,  and  I  should  have  frightened 
you  into  fits. 

ZENO.  It  is  for  us  to  beg  pardon.  We  expected  to  find 
Mademoiselle  de  Ruseville  and  the  gentlemen  here ;  they  are 
coming  to  inspect  your  museum.  {Crosses  to  R.) 

PROSP.  (without,  R.).     Pray  inspect  by  all  means. 

MATH,   (going  up  c.).     What  a  quantity  of  pretty  things  ! 

ZENO.  (beckoning  ANAT.  to  her  and  speaking  aside  whilst 
MATH,  is  looking  round).  You  know  very  well  I  object  to 
your  being  with  Monsieur  Prosper — he's  a  very  dangerous  ac- 
quaintance. 

ANAT.  (R.  c.).  You  won't  let  me  speak  to  a  soul  next.  Now, 
it's  Monsieur  Prosper — now,  it's  Mademoiselle  de  Ruseville — 
now,  it's  Mademoiselle  Mathilde.  (Comes  down  c.) 

ZENO.  (R.).  And  pretty  attention  you  pay  to  what  I  say  ! 
But  this  I  tell  you — if  you  can't  behave  better,  back  to  your 
tutor,  the  Abbe  Boulet,  you  go. 

MATH,  (coming  down  L.  to  cabinet,  calling).  Monsieur 
Anatole — come  here!  Look!  (Calls  louder.)  Monsieur 
Anatole  ! 

ZENO.     You'll  not  stir. 

(Sits  down  L.  of  table,  R.,  and  looks  over  illustrated  books. 
ANAT.  stands  perplexed  at  c.) 

MATH,  (coming  down  to  L.  of  ANAT.).  Pretty  behavior  ! 
So  I  am  to  run  after  you,  am  I  ?  Oh  !  yes  !  I  see — Madem- 
oiselle Zenobie  has  forbidden  you  to  speak  to  me. 

(Sits  R.  of  table  L.) 
ANAT.  (c.).     But,  Mademoiselle 


ZENO.  (R.).     Anatole — bring  me  a  footstool. 

ANAT.     Yes,  ma'am.     (Fetches  a  footstool.) 

MATH,   (low  to  ANAT.).     I  forbid  you  to  give  it  to  her. 

ANAT.   (bringing  the  footstool).     But  I 


A   SCRAP  OF  PAPER  29 

MATH,  (showing  her  feet).     And  put  it  there  directly,  sir  ! 

AN  AT.  (between  the  two  women  with  the  footstool).  But 
really,  I  don't  know • 

ZENO.     Where's  the  footstool  ? 

ANAT.     I  don't  know. 

ZENO.  (R.).     Why,  you've  got  the  footstool  in  your  hands. 

ANAT.  Have  I  ?  Oh  !  yes  !  (Looks  at  MATH.  ,  who  keeps 
pointing  at  her  own  feet.)  But — Mademoiselle  Mathilde 
asked  me  to. 

MATH.  (L.).  Oh !  if  Mademoiselle  Zenobie  desires  her 
footstool,  pray  give  it  to  her. 

(ANAT.,  during  the  following,  keeps  going  from  one  to  the 

other.) 

ZENO.  (tartly).     You  are  too  kind,  mademoiselle. 

MATH.  It  is  only  due  from  a  girl  of  my  age  to  a  woman  of 
yours. 

ZENO.  {pushing  away  the  footstool  which  ANAT.  presents). 
The  difference  is  not  so  great  that  I  should  deprive  you  of  the 
footstool,  mademoiselle. 

MATH,  (rejecting  the  footstool  which  ANAT.  presents). 
Then  pray  accept  it  as  a  delicate  attention  of  Monsieur  Ana- 
tole — which  I  give  up  to  you. 

ZENO.  (aside).     Insolent  minx  ! 

MATH,  (aside).     Take  that,  my  dear  !     (Rises.) 

ZENO.  (rising,  apart  to  ANAT.).  You  go  back  to  your 
tutor's  this  very  evening. 

(Goes  to  R.  c.,  and  sits  down  angrily.) 

MATH,  (apart  to  him  on  the  other  side).  If  you  answer  her 
one  word,  I'll  never  speak  to  you  again  in  my  life. 

Goes  up  L.  to  cabinet.  ANAT.  sits  down  on  the  footstool  at  C. 
in  despair.  Enter  BRISE.  ,  L.  2  E.  door,  in  shooting  at" 
tire,  with  gun — -followed  by  Suz. 

BRISE.     May  we  come  in  ? 

Enter  PROSP.,  dressed,  R.  4  E.  door. 

PROSP.  (down  c.  behind  ANAT.).  By  all  means  ! — by  all 
means  !  (BRISK,  crosses  to  fireplace  at  R.) 

Suz.  (entering  L.  2  E.  ;  to  PROSP.).     You  see,  sir,  I  make 


30  A   SCRAP  OF  PAPER 

the  most  warlike  entry,  like  an  enemy  armed  to  the  teeth. 
Are  you  prepared  to  repulse  me?  (L.  c.) 

PROSP.  As  an  Eastern  traveler,  I  have  but  to  say,  "  A  ray 
of  sunlight  has  the  right  to  enter  everywhere."  (Bows  to  her.') 

MATH,  (down  L.).     And  if  one  isn't  a  ray  of  sunlight  ? 

PROSP.  (bowing  to  her).  The  perfume  of  the  rose  has  the 
same  privilege. 

MATH,  (low  to  ANAT.).  He's  a  great  deal  more  gallant 
than  you  are.  (Up  R.  to  mummy  case  followed  by  Suz.) 

PROSP.     Well,  what  have  you  killed  to-day  ? 

BRISK,  (turning  round  from  fire).  Between  us  all  —  just 
one  dog  ! 

PROSP.  But  I  thought  your  friend  the  Baron  was  a  crack 
shot? 

BRISE.  De  la  Glaciere?  (Comes  to  R.  c.,  passing  in  front 
of  table.}  I  don't  know  what's  the  matter  with  him  this  after- 
noon. He  was  more  silent  and  morose  than  ever,  and  missed 
every  bird.  I  left  him  with  Baptiste,  who  accompanied  us. 
(  Comes  upon  ANAT.  with  his  gun  as  if  he  came  upon  a  hare.} 
Holloa  !  what  are  you  doing  here  ? 

ZENO.     He  is  going  back  to  his  tutor's. 

BRISE.     On  that  footstool  ? 

ZENO.     This  very  evening  —  to  continue  his  studies. 

BRISE.     But,  my  dear  girl,  I  don't  see  the  necessity. 

(Crosses  to  divan  L.  and  sits.) 

ANAT.     Nor  I.     (Rises.) 

ZENO.     But  I  insist  upon  it  !     There,  go  and  pack  up. 
ANAT.     I'm    going  —  I'm    going  !     (Aside  t  goes    R.)     But 
I'm  not  gone  yet.     Hang  old  Zenobie  ! 


Exit  R.  3  E.  ;  PROSpftt/aftdfrV/g'  c.  ;  ZENO.  seated;  Suz.  comes 
down  behind  ne\  ;  MATH,  goes  here  and  there. 

Suz.  (R.  c.).  Well,  I  must  say  the  collection  of  curiosities 
in  this  room  is  most  remarkable. 

PROSP.   (c.).     Including  the  collector  ? 

Suz.  Especially  the  collector,  who  sits  on  an  American 
easy-chair  before  a  Flemish  table  covered  with  an  Algerine 
table-cloth,  and  smokes  Turkish  tobacco  in  a  German  pipe 
—  or  after  a  dinner  a  la  Russe,  at  which  he  has  talked 
"sport"  in  English,  drinks  a  Chinese  beverage  out  of  Dres- 
den porcelain,  asks  for  Italian  music,  and  then  calls  himself  a 
Frenchman  ! 


A   SCRAP  OF  PAPER  31 

MATH,  (holding  up  a  string  of  shells  which  she  discovers 
in  cabinet  at  L.).  Oh,  what  pretty  shells  ! 

(Comes  down  L.  #/"  PROSP.) 

PROSP.     A  present  from  the  Queen  of  the  Cannibal  Islands, 

ZENO.     A  collar,  I  see. 

PROSP.  (to  ZENO.  and  Suz.).  Yes.  (Aside.)  It  is  really 
a  petticoat;  but  I  did  not  like  to  say  so. 

MATH.  (L.).     Oh,  Anatole  !     What,  is  he  gone? 

ZENO.     Gone,  mademoiselle. 

MATH,  (to  PROSP.).  Many  thanks  for  your  kindness,  sir. 
{Crosses  to  R.)  Are  you  coming,  godmamma? 

Suz.     I'll  follow  you  immediately. 

BRISE.  (to  MATH.,  who  is  going  out,  R.).  Are  you  going 
that  way  ? 

MATH.  Yes  ;  it's  the  shortest  cut  to  the  chateau.  {Aside.) 
And  that's  the  way  Anatole  went. 

Exit,  R.  3  E. 

BRISE.  {rising).  I'll  be  off  too — who  knows — we  may  con- 
trive to  bring  down  another  dog. 

ZENO.  (about  to  go  out  door,  L.  2  E.).  Are  you  not  com- 
ing, mademoiselle? 

Suz.     Thank  you,  I'll  follow  Mathilde. 

BRISE.     Good-bye,  Prosper ! 

Exit,  L.  2  E.  door,  preceded  by  ZENO. 

Suz.  (with  her  hand  on  door  R.  3  E.,  as  if  ready  to  go, 
smiles  at  PROSP.  who  comes  to  L.  of  table  at  R.  and  bows  to 
her.  Then  Suz.  takes  her  hand  from  the  door  and  returns  to 
R.  of  table).  I  have  the  honor,  sir  {pausing},  to  wish  you  a 
very  good-day. 

PROSP.     Oh  !  oh  !   I  thought  you  were  beating  a  retreat. 

Suz.  (R.).  Before  giving  battle?  It's  very  clear  you  don't 
know  me.  But,  first,  do  you  mean  to  keep  the  letter  ? 

PROSP.     I  mean  to  keep  it.     {Passes  to  R.  of  table.) 

Suz.  {passing  in  front  of  table  to  L.).  Well  then,  before 
coming  to  actual  hostilities,  suppose  we  interchange  a  few  diplo- 
matic notes.  (L.  of  table  R.  c.) 

PROSP.  (R.  of  table  R.  c.).  A  few  diplomatic  notes,  by  all 
means.  (.Both  seated.) 


32  A   SCRAP  OF  PAPER 

Suz.  Note  one — (leaning  elbows  on  table}  On  our  side  we 
make  an  appeal  to  the  honor  of  our  adversary,  and  simply  ask 
whether  he  thinks  it  honest  to  keep  a  letter  which  he  has — 
what  shall  I  say  ? 

PROSP.     Stolen ! 

Suz.  No — we'll  be  diplomatic,  please,  and  say  "  annexed." 
What  has  your  side  to  answer  ? 

PROSP.     That  the  letter  being  addressed  to  me  was  mine. 

Suz.     But  it  was  never  delivered — ergo,  it  is  still  ours. 

PROSP.     But  you  sent  it — ergo,  it  is  still  mine. 

Suz.     Pardon  me,  it  was  never  sent. 

PROSP.  Pardon  me,  it  was  put  into  the  post — that  is — the 
Flora.  The  question  is — Does  a  letter  put  into  the  post  belong 
to  the  sender  or  the  sendee  ? 

Suz.     To  the  send-^r. 

PROSP.     To  the  send-^<r. 

Suz.     Well,  let's  cut  the  Gordian  knot— to  both. 

PROSP.  When  the  rights  are  equal,  possession  decides  the 
claim.  I  think,  madam,  we  have  settled  that  question. 

Suz.  Hum  !  Note  two — We  next  inquire,  what  use  you 
intend  to  make  of  our  handwriting  ? 

PROSP.  My  answer  to  that  question  has  been  already  cate- 
gorically given.  Let  the  strictest  neutrality  be  observed;  and, 
the  moment  I  give  up  all  hopes  of  Mathilde,  I'll  bid  an  eternal 
adieu  to  Madame  de  la  Glaciere,  and  burn  the  letter  before 
her  eyes. 

Suz.     You  will  do  that  ? 

PROSP.  On  my  honor  !  And  I  verily  believe  I  should  have 
done  so  at  once  on  returning  home — of  course,  without  ad- 
mitting the  fact — had  you  not  defied  me  to  mortal  combat. 

Suz.  Well,  then,  I  withdraw  my  challenge ;  and  you  can 
burn  it  now.  (Rising,  laughs.)  Look,  here  is  a  capital  fire — 
I  won't  say  a  word  to  Louise — and  you  will  lose  nothing  by 
your  good  action.  (Passes  in  front  of  table  to  R.) 

PROSP.  (rising,  laughing).  I  beg  your  pardon — I  should 
lose  the  intense  satisfaction  of  seeing  you  hunt  for  the  letter  in 
vain.  (Passes  behind  table  to  L.) 

Suz.     Is  that  your  ultimatum? 

PROSP.  My  ultimatissimum — search,  search  !  I  sha'n't  pre- 
vent you.  The  letter  is  here — somewhere  ! 

Suz.     In  this  very  room  ? 

PROSP.  Or  else  in  the  other !  First  catch  your  hare  and 
then  you  may  cook  him  yourself,  at  any  fire  you  please. 


A  SCRAP  OF  PAPER  33 

Suz.  No,  no,  I  shall  not  be  satisfied  till  I  have  made  you 
burn  it  with  your  own  hands. 

PROSP.  Indeed !  Then,  I  give  you  my  word  of  honor,  if 
you  contrive  to  do  that,  I  will  pack  myself  off  this  very  even- 
ing to  look  out  for  a  wife  in  the  Cannibal  Islands,  Jericho,  or 
anywhere  you  please. 

Suz.     Your  word  of  honor  ? 

PROSP.     My  word  of  honor  ! 

Suz.     Beware  !     I  am  obstinate. 

PROSP.     So  am  I. 

Suz.  I  am  going  to  sit  down  to  a  regular  siege — I  shall 
bore  you  until  you  say  yourself,  "  I  had  better  burn  the  letter 
and  get  rid  of  that  nuisance  of  a  woman  !  " 

PROSP.  Never  was  criminal  threatened  with  so  alluring  a 
punishment !  I'm  enraptured  to  think  of  the  many  pleasant 
hours  we  are  about  to  pass  in  a  long  delicious  tete-d  tete — I 
am  sorry  to  be  obliged  to  leave  you"  a  short  time — I  have  an 
indispensable  visit  to  pay  to  a  tiresome  old  uncle ;  but  pray 
consider  yourself  perfectly  at  home. 

READY  knock  at  R, 

There's  good  fire — plenty  of  books  and  drawings  for  your 
amusement — all  my  curiosities  and  Brisemouche's  entomolog- 
ical treasures.  Everything  (waving  his  hand  as  if  to  deliver 
the  room  up  to  her)  is  open  for  your  inspection — except  this 
little  casket  (indicating  box  on  table,  on  which  he  places  his 
hand  a  moment),  which  contains  papers  that  cannot  possibly 
interest  you.  Open  everything  else — turn  everything  topsy- 
turvy— (passing  to  door  R.  2  E.)  and  I  hope  on  my  return  to 
have  the  happy  privilege  of  renewing  this  most  agreeable  con- 
versation. 

Exit,  R.  2  E. 

Suz.  He's  actually  gone  !  (Stands  a  moment  looking  about 
the  room.)  Hang  the  man,  his  impertinence  is  perfectly  de- 
lightful. (Imitates. y  "Search,  search — everything  is  open  for 
your  inspection — everything  but  this  casket."  (Looks  keenly 
at  the  box.  Puts  her  hand  on  it  as  PROSP.  had  done.)  My 
dear  sir,  the  stress  you  lay  upon  the  casket  convinced  me  that 
the  letter  is  not  there.  But  it  is  here — "  somewhere."  Where 
can  he  have  concealed  it  ? 

KNOCKING  R.  3  £ 


34  A  SCRAP  OF  PAPER 

Has  he  returned  ?  No — it  is  at  this  little  door  leading  down 
into  the  park. 

KNOCK  R.  3  E.  repeated. 

Who  can  it  be?  I  don't  want  to  be  found  in  a  strange  gentle- 
man's room.  One's  never  too  old  for  scandal — a  pretty  mess 
I've  let  myself  into — that  comes  oAneddling  with  other  people's 
affairs. 

KNOCK  repeated. 

(Suz.  opens  R.  door ;  LOUISE  looks  in ;  she  wears  a  remark- 
able Indian  shawl  over  her  head.) 

LOUISE  (R.).     You  aie  alone — are  you  not? 

Suz.  (L.  of  table).     Louise  ! 

LOUISE  (coming  in  and  closing  the  door  behind  her  hastily). 
I  saw  him  ride  by  the  windows  of  the  chateau.  You  did  not 
return,  and  my  impatience  was  so  great  that  I  hastily  threw  on 
this  shawl  and  came  myself. 

{Crosses  to  fire  and  puts  shawl  on  chair  beside  //.J 

Suz.  What  imprudence !  If  your  husband  had  seen  you, 
or  that  dear,  delightful,  censorious  Mademoiselle  Zenobie 

LOUISE.  What  matter,  since  we  were  both  together  ?  Have 
you  got  it?  (R.  of  table.) 

Suz.     The  letter  ?     No — he  refuses  to  give  it  up. 

LOUISE.  He  must  have  left  it  here.  Find  it — find  it,  I 
entreat  you  !  I  am  so  terrified — I  scarce  dare  raise  my  eyes 
to  look  into  my  husband's  face — I  fancy  he  suspects — knows 
everything. 

Suz.  What  if  he  does  know  everything?  You  say  the 
whole  affair  was  only  a  most  innocent  little  flirtation. 

LOUISE.  Of  course  it  was — I  was  a  thoughtless,  romantic 
girl  at  the  time,  and  saw  no  wrong ;  but  my  husband,  under 
that  semblance  of  apathy,  conceals  a  highly  sensitive  nature. 
The  bare  suspicion  of  any  previous  attachment,  even  of  the 
slightest  flirtation,  would  wound  that  nature  to  the  quick.  The 
discovery  of  this  letter  might  rouse  all  his  jealous  susceptibili- 
ties and  compromise  our  domestic  happiness  forever. 

Suz.  (seated  L.  of  table  at  R.).  Ah,  my  poor,  dear  friend, 
what  a  warning  you  give  to  silly  girls 

LOUISE.  Not  to  write  letters !  Oh !  yes — girls  should 
never  write  J 


A  SCRAP  OF  PAPER  35 

Suz.  They  should  rather  beware  of  fostering  absurd  ideas, 
and  fancying  themselves  in  love. 

LOUISE.  But  don't  let  us  lose  any  time — let  us  hunt 
about.  (Gets  up  c.) 

Suz.  (speaking  reflectively).  That's  the  very  thing  I'm  now 
doing. 

LOUISE  (turning  about,  comes  down  c.).  Doing !  seated 
there  ! 

(Begins   nervously  turning  over  papers   and  books  on  table 

atL.) 

Suz.  Yes,  in  my  head — that's  my  way  of  hunting.  But  do 
you  go  your  own  way  to  work. 

LOUISE  (pettishly,  slamming  down  a  book).  Oh  !  you  put 
me  out  of  all  my  patience  ! 

Suz.  (coolly).  My  dear  child,  nature  made  woman  weak, 
but  gave  as  compensation  a  sixth  sense.  Have  you  ever  ex- 
amined any  butterflies? 

LOUISE.     What  an  absurd  question  ! 

Suz.  (rising  and  going  to  table,  L.  c.,  and  taking  up  a  case^ 
of  butterflies).     They  have  got  long,  thin  horns  upon  their 
heads  to  enable  them  to  feel  and  appreciate  objects  at  a  dis-  I ^  i  J> 
tance.     Look ! 

LOUISE.     What  do  you  mean  ? 

Suz.     The   naturalists   call   them   "  antennae."     Well,    my  f 
dear,  women  too  have  "antennae,"  but  of  so  delicate  a  nature 
that  they  are  invisible.     Sometimes  they  are  made  like  tendrils, 
to  entangle  our  natural  enemy,  man  ;  sometimes  they  are  sharp 
and  pointed,  just  to  blind  them,  my  dear. 

LOUISE  (turning  away  pettishly).  And  you  want  to  find 
my  letter  with  your  "antennae" — a  likely  idea!  I'd  rather 
trust  to  my  ten  fingers. 

(Goes  on  opening  all  the  drawers  in  cabinet ',  etc.) 

Suz.  (returning  to  c.).  You  shall  see  how  I  will  use  my 
"antennae."  Yes,  yes;  open  all  the  drawers — hunt  away. 
Just  see  if  you  can't  find  your  letter  in  the  guitar  case.  What 
a  child  you  are  ! 

LOUISE.     He  may  have  hid  it  among  the  books. 

(Goes  to  case  up  R.) 
Suz.     And  you  mean  to  look  among  all  the  three  hundred 


36  A  SCRAP  OF  PAPER 

volumes — out  of  the  question  !  Look  at  the  edges  of  the 
shelves. 

LOUISE.     Why  ? 

Suz.     Are  they  dusty? 

LOUISE.     Yes. 

Suz.     All  along  ? 

LOUISE.     All  along. 

Suz.  Then  it's  not  among  the  books.  If  he  had  pulled  one 
down,  the  dust  would  have  been  disturbed. 

LOUISE.     To  be  sure. 

Suz.  Just  look  at  that  little  bit  of  paper  folded  together, 
and  put  to  steady  the  leg  of  the  table. 

(Indicates  table,  R.  c.,  and  bends  over  to  look.) 

LOUISE.     This?     (Comes  down.) 

Suz.  Yes;  (getting  up)  it's  not  worth  the  trouble;  the 
paper  is  black  and  worn. 

LOUISE.  Yes ;  and  he  would  never  have  put  it  there,  where 
everybody  can  see  it.  (She  continues  to  hunt  about.) 

Suz.  It's  very  clear  you  don't  know  how  to  use  your 
"antennae."  Your  knowing  man  would  be  sure  to  make  so 
little  concealment  of  an  object  he  wished  to  hide  that  nobody 
would  be  likely  to  look  for  it  in  a  place  so  open  to  inspection. 
I'll  wager  now,  that  if  we  can't  find  this  unfortunate  letter,  it 
is  because  it  is  lying  about  somewhere  before  our  very  eyes. 

LOUISE  (who  has  been  hunting  about,  R.).  Nothing — noth- 
ing !  but  there's  another  room  here. 

Suz.  Go  in  by  all  means.  My  right  of  search  is  unlimited, 
though. 

LOUISE  (opening  the  door,  R.  4  E.).  If  he  should  come 
back?  No  matter;  you  would  give  the  alarm. 

Exit,  R.  4  E. 

Suz.  (looking  around  her).  Where  can  it  be  ?  He's  clever 
enough  to  have  put  it  simply  under  his  letter-weight.  (At  L. 
of  table  R.,  lifts  up  letter-press.)  No  !— in  this  vase?  Noth- 
ing but  visiting  cards  and  a  stick  of  sealing-wax.  In  this  jar? 
(Opens  the  tobacco  jar.)  Tobacco — cigarette  papers — several 
letters  crumpled  and  torn.  (Reads  superscription  of  letter.) 
"Monsieur  Prosper  Couramount,  in  the  care  of  Mahony 
Brothers,  Madrid."  "Monsieur  Prosper  Couramont,  Albany, 
London" — "Try  post-office,  Paris."  (Goes  on  with  several 


A   SCRAP  OF  PAPER  37 

other  letters  which  she  passes,  as  she  speaks,  from  her  right 
hand  to  her  left.)  "  Monsieur  Prosper  Couramont,  in  the  care 
of  the  Reverend  Mr.  Huggins,  Sandwich  Islands!"  "  Mon-  A 

sieur   Prosper    Couramont "     (Stops    and  takes   up   last  / 

letter.)  Stop  !  this  letter  has  seen  a  good  deal  of  the  workkx 
It  must  have  been  a  very  precious  letter  for  him  to  have 
brought  it  all  the  way  from  the  Sandwich  Islands  and  kept  it 
so  long  (weighing  it  in  her  hands) ;  and  yet  it's  very  light. 
There's  only  the  veriest  scrap  of  paper  in  it.  Now  who,  I 
should  like  to  know,  would  have  sent  a  letter  all  the  way  to  the 
Sandwich  Islands,  costing  no  end  of  postage-money,  which 
cannot  contain  much  more  than  "  How  do  you  do?  "  "Very 
well,  I  thank  you."  It's  very  odd — very  !  (Calls.)  Louise  ! 

LOUISE  (in  the  room*  R.).     I  can't  find  it  1 

Suz.     Louise,  was  the  letter  large  ? 

LOUISE  (within).  No;  only  half  a  sheet  of  note  paper 
folded  in  two. 

Suz.  (feeling  the  envelope).  A  half  sheet  of  note  paper 
folded  in  two.  (Aloud. )  On  white  paper  ? 

LOUISE  (as  before).     No ;  pink. 

Suz.   (holding  the  envelope  up  to  the  light).     It  is  pink  ! 

LOUISE  (as  before).     I've  found  a  quantity  of  papers. 

Suz.  Have  you,  dear  ?  All  right !  (Smells  the  envelope.) 
'Tis  an  old  scrap  of  paper ;  all  the  perfume  is  gone.  (Holds 
up  the  envelope  again.)  If  I  could  but  see  the  writing.  (About 
to  open  the  envelope.)  He  gave  me  permission  to  search  every- 
thing that  was  open,  and  this  envelope  is  open.  (  Checks  her- 
self.) Stop,  stop!  it's  not  quite  the  thing.  One  isn't  in  the 
habit  of  opening  other  people's  letters.  (Feels  the  envelope.) 
And  yet,  if  it  were  Louise's  letter.  Oh  !  my  fingers  burn — my 
fingers  burn  ! 

Enter  LOUISE,  R.  4  E. 

LOUISE  (crying  with  vexation  as  she  comes  down  c.).  Oh  ! 
my  dear  Suzanne,  I  give  it  up  !  We  shall  never  find  it  now  ! 

READY  knock  R* 

Suz.  I  can't  bear  it  any  longer — I  can't  see  her  cry. 
(Opens  envelope  and  takes  out  paper,  which  she  hands  to 
LOUISE.)  Is  your  letter  anything  like  that? 

LOUISE  (L.  c.,  opening  the  paper).     'Tis  the  letter  itself! 

Suz.  (R.  c.,  bursting  out  laughing).  What  do  you  say  to 
my  "antennae"  now,  my  dear? 


38  A  SCRAP  OF  PAPER 

LOUISE.     Oh!     yes — it's    the    same.     (Reads.)      "I    am 

obliged  to  leave  home  by  daybreak;  but  far  or  near " 

Could  I  have  written  such  words?  Fool  that  I  was!  and 
should  my  husband  ever  know. 

VIOLENT  knocking  R, 

Suz.     Some  one  knocks  ! 
LOUISE.     It  was  there — there  ! 
BARON  (without  R.).     Open  the  door  ! 
Suz.     Your  husband  !     Give  me  the  letter.     (Snatches  it.) 
LOUISE.     Good  heavens  !  where  shall  I  hide  ? 
Suz.   (low  ;  going  to  open  the  door).     Don't  think  of  hiding 
— stay  where  you  are. 

LOUISE.     No,  no — he  would  see  my  agitation. 

(Runs  to  R.  4  E.     BARON  continues  to  knock.) 

Suz.  (low,  her  hand  on  lock  of  door,  R.).  No — stop,  I  tell 
you  !  (LouiSE  exits  room  R.  ;  with  vexation.)  Oh  !  foolish 
woman  !  (She  opens  the  door,  R.  3  E.) 

Enter  BARON,  in  shooting  dress,  with  his  gun. 

BARON  (R.,  surprised).     You  ! 

Suz.  (R.  c.,  calm  and  smiling).  Yes — I !  What  an  uproar 
you  have  been  making  ! 

BARON.     Here  ? 

Suz.     In  this  museum.     I'm  looking  at  all  the  curiosities. 

BARON  (looking  round  him).     Alone?     (Comes  to  C.) 

Suz.  You  see (Sits  at  table  L.  c.,  and  examines  a 

drawer  full  of  shells.)  What  a  wonderful  collection  of  shells 
to  be  sure — only  look  ! 

BARON  (putting  down  his  gun,  L.  c.  to  L. ).  But  I  heard  talking. 

Suz.  I  was  trying  to  pronounce  these  dreadful  words  aloud. 
Why  will  scientific  men  give  such  preposterous  names  to  things  ? 
Oh  !  look — isn't  that  pretty? 

BARON.     You  were  not  alone — Louise  was  here. 

(Comes  to  L.  of  table,  L.  C.) 

Suz.     What  should  she  be  doing  here  ? 

BARON.  Something  she  was  ashamed  of  apparently,  since 
she  made  her  escape. 

Suz.  (lattghing,  still  looking  at  shells).  Ha,  ha,  ha !  does 
tnis  fit  often  seize  you,  cousin  ? 


A   SCRAP  OF  PAPER  39 

BARON.     She  was  here,  I  say  ! 

Suz.  And  if  she  was>  why  shouldn't  she  be  here  still  ?  Do 
you  think  she  has  hidden  herself  under  the  table  ? 

BARON  (roughly,  looking  her  full  in  the  face).  Then  why 
didn't  you  open  the  door  immediately  ? 

Suz.  (not  at  all  disconcerted}.  Because  I  thought  the 
knocking  was  at  the  other  door,  and  I  opened  that  first. 

BARON.  In  order  that  Louise  might  get  away.  That's  the 
way  she  went,  then  ?  {Goes  to  L.  2  E.,  atid  looks  out.} 

Suz.  What  a  tiresome  old  bear  you  are  !  If  Louise  went 
that  way,  go  and  look  after  her ;  and  leave  me  to  examine  the 
shells. 

BARON  (coming  behind  table).  My  wife  was  strangely  agi- 
tated this  morning  after  her  conversation  with  Monsieur  What's- 
his-name,  whom  she  knew  before  her  marriage — more  still, 
during  that  little  affair  about  the  statuette — what  did  that 
mean  ? 

Suz.  (looking  at  shells).  Perhaps  she  was  afraid  he  would 
drop  it.  (Rises  j  goes  C.) 

BARON  {getting  more  and  more  angry,  follows  her  at L.). 
The  man  made  an  offer  of  marriage  for  Mathilde,  without  ever 
having  seen  her — a  mere  pretext,  it  is  very  clear,  to  get  into  the 
house  and  see  my  wife — a  got-up  plan  to  divert  my  suspicions  ! 
(Seizes  hold  of  Suz.)  Look  me  in  the  face  and  tell  me  it  was 
ijoJ^^5~tf"-yo~u  can. 

Suz.  (R.  c.).  It's  as  clear  as  noonday — only  let  go  my 
hand,  please,  for  you  hurt  me ;  and  a  pretty  mess  you  have 
made  of  the  poor  shells.  (Opens  her  hand ;  shows  the  shells 
in  powder.}  You  really  don't  know  how  to  behave  yourself. 

BARON  (L.  c.).  Listen.  I  left  Brisemouche  out  shooting  to 
return  home — I  inquired  for  my  wife — she  was  gone  out,  but  I 
had  her  spaniel,  Fidele,  with  me ;  and  he  has  tracked  her  to 
this  house — to  the  foot  of  that  stair.  I  tell  you  my  wife  is 
here  !  Where  is  she,  I  say  ?  Where  is  she  ? 

Suz.  What  do  you  ask  me  for?  Since  you've  taken  to 
hunting  your  wife  as  they  hunt  slaves,  whistle  for  Fidele,  my 
dear  sir,  whistle  for  Fidele. 

BARON.     Suzanne,  you  trifle  with  my  feelings  ! 

(Crosses  to  R.) 

Suz.  Trifle  with  your  feelings  !  No — I  wish  to  spare  them. 
If  I  laugh  at  you,  it  is  to  show  ho\v  senseless  is  your  conduct. 
Come — come — calm  yourself,  and  try  to  be  a  little  reasonable. 


40  A  SCRAP  OF  PAPER 

BARON.  You  are  right — you  are  right  to  jeer  me — my  jeal- 
ousy blinds  me — it  drives  me  mad  !  It  makes  me  utterly  mis- 
erable. (Throws  himself  into  a  chair,  L.  of  table,  R.  c.) 

Suz.  (c).  Look  up,  my  poor  friend  !  Now,  how  can  you 
ruin  all  your  happiness  thus,  when  you  have  a  charming  wife 
who  thinks  of  nobody  but  you — lives  for  nobody  but  you  ? 

BARON.  I  know  it,  Suzanne — I  know  it — and  I  am  calm  now 
— (elbows  on  table,  head  in  hands)  quite  calm ;  but  should 

anything  again  ever  cause  me  to  suspect (Sees  LOUISE'S 

shawl,  stares  at  it,  then  rises  and  darts  on  it.)  My  wife's 
shawl !  Ah  !  you  see  she  has  been  here  ! 

Suz.     Well— what  of  the  shawl  ? 

BARON  (R.).     Who  put  it  there? 

Suz.  (R.  c.).     I  did — I  took  up  the  first  that  came  to  hand. 

BARON.  I  don't  believe  you.  My  wife's  shawl  is  here — 
then  she's  not  gone — she's  still  concealed  here — and  1  swear 
that  if  1  find  her 

( Crosses  to  L.,  to  take  up  his  gun.) 

Suz.     Baron  !  Baron  !  I  beg  of  you 

BARON  (searching,  in  spite  of  her).     Leave  me  ! 

Suz.   (trying  to  stop  him).     Hear  me  !  hear  me  ! 

BARON  (seeing  the  door,  R.  4  E.).  Ah!  there's  a  door  here  ! 
(Suz.  springs  b etwee 71  him  and  the  door.)  She  is  concealed  in 
that  man's  room.  Let  me  go — by  heaven,  I'll  have  his  life  ! 

(Menaces  with  his  gun.) 

Suz.     For  my  sake 

BARON.     For  your  sake  ? 

Suz.  (with  feverish  haste,  as  if  regardless  of  what  she  is 
saying).  Yes — for  mine  !  You  drive  me  to  this  confession  by 
your  violence.  What !  were  you  so  blind  ?  (Forces  him  from 
door  towards)  Did  not  my  embarrassment — my  agitation— 
at  once  reveal  the  truth  ?  I  didn't  open  the  door  at  once,  'tis 
true,  because  I  was  afraid  of  being  found  here.  Your  dog  evi- 
dently recognized  your  wife's  shawl  which  I  wore.  Don't  you 

e  ?  Louise  refused  her  sister's  hand  to  Prosper,  because  she 
knew  I  loved  him  years  ago — don't  you  see  ?  Prosper  imagined 
I  had  deceived  him,  and  so  wanted  to  marry  another  in  order 
to  revenge  himself  on  me — don't  you  see  ?  When  Louise  spoke 
low  to  him,  it  was  to  justify  me,  and  prevent  this  detested  mar- 
riage, which  I  was  resolved  never  should  take  place — don't  you 
see  ?  Don't  you  see  ? 


\/kr 


A  SCRAP  OF  PAPER  4! 

BARON  (L.).  Yes,  yes,  I  remember  now.  He  spoke  this 
morning  of  some  heartless  treachery  on  the  part  of  a  woman. 

Suz.  (R.).  He  meant  me — I  was  the  heartless  treachery  ! 
(Sighs.)  But  it  was  all  a  mistake — a  misunderstanding. 

BARON.     Why  not  tell  me  this  at  once  ? 

Suz.  Can  you  ask  the  question?  What  woman  would 
willingly  confess  the  weakness  of  her  heart  ?  And  then  you 
were  so  violent,  and  made  such  an  awful  noise — you  don't  know 
what  a  noise  you  do  make.  And  I  was  so  frightened,  and — so 
out  it  came — I  don't  know  how — and — don't  you  see?  don't 
you  see?  (Aside.)  I  don't  know  what  on  earth  I  am  talking 
about. 

BARON.  Be  calm,  my  dear  Suzanne — no  one  shall  ever 
learn  this  secret  from  me.  But  I'll  not  allow  this  man  to  trifle 
with  your  feelings  in  this  manner — I'll  see  him  at  once. 

Suz.     See  him — what  for  ? 

BARON.  What  for?  Why,  to  tell  him  I  know  the  state  of 
affairs  between  you,  make  him  withdraw  his  pretensions  to  the 
hand  of  Mathilde,  and — and 

Suz.     And  what  ? 

BARON.     What  ?     Why,  marry  you,  to  be  sure  ! 

Suz.  (aside).  Good  heavens !  I  didn't  take  that  into  my 
reckoning. 

BARON.  Yes,  yes ;  I'll  see  the  fellow — speak  out  my  mind 
at  once. 

Suz.  What  are  you  thinking  of,  my  dear  friend  ?  Let  me 
see  him  first — endeavor  to  lure  him  back  myself.  You  would 
not  deprive  a  woman  of  her  dearest  privilege — would  you, 
cousin  ? 

BARON.  As  you  will.  (Goes  on  with  volubility,  spite  of 
the  efforts  of  Suz.  to  speak.)  Marry  you  he  shall — dead 
or  alive !  I  won't  have  him  play  fast  and  loose  with  cousin 
Suzanne — that  I  won't.  I  owe  him  a  grudge  for  making  me 
suspect  Louise — my  own  dear,  good  Louise.  (Bursts  out 
laughing.)  Good  heavens  !  what  a  fool  man  makes  of  himself 
sometimes  !  But  he  shall  pay  for  it — he  shall  marry  you  as  a 
punishment — no,  I  don't  mean  that — but  marry  you  he  shall  ! 
Now,  then,  to  bring  down  my  man  !  amicably — I  mean  ami- 
cably !  (Pats  his  gun.)  Old  trusty,  here,  is  for  the  par- 
tridges— so  ho,  Fidele  !  and  off  we  go  ! 

Suz.  (aside).  Now  the  popular  opinion  is  that  that  man 
can't  talk. 

BARON  (turning  at  door  L.).     Not  a  word  to  Louise  ! 


42  A  SCRAP  OF  PAPER 

Suz.  She  shall  not  know  more  about  the  affair  than  she 
knows  at  this  moment — I  give  you  my  word. 

BARON.     I  would  not  have  her  know  for  the  world. 

Exit,  L.  2  E.     Reenter  LOUISE,  R.  4  E. 

LOUISE  (throwing  herself  into  the  arms  of  Suz.).  Oh  ! 
Suzanne,  my  dear,  kind  friend,  blessings  on  you — you  have 
saved  me  ! 

Suz.     Yes,  but  I've  lost  myself  ! 

LOUISE.     What  do  you  mean  ? 

Suz.  Simply  that  he  wants  me  to  marry  this  man.  You 
know  that  will  never  do — I  should  inevitably  have  to  play  the 
"  Bride  of  Lammermoor  "  with  him  and  finish  him  off  on  the 
wedding-eve. 

LOUISE.  But  think — should  my  husband  see  him  and  speak 
to  him,  all  might  still  come  out.  He  must  go  away  at  once. 

Suz.  (c.).  Go  he  shall  !  But  now,  be  off  yourself !  Your 
husband  might  return  home;  and  you  must  be  there  before 
him. 

LOUISE.     But  I  should  like  to  see  that  letter  burnt. 

(  Crosses  to  fireplace. ) 

Suz.     Don't  lose  a  moment,  I  entreat  you. 

LOUISE  (taking  up  her  shawl).     But  should  I  be  seen  — 

Suz.  (opening  door  R.  3  E.).  Go  this  way — the  coast  is 
clear. 

LOUISE.     I  will. 

Suz.     But  leave  your  shawl,  silly  creature. 

LOUISE  (throwing  it  to  Suz.).  Yes,  of  course.  I  shall  fly 
home  like  a  bird ;  my  heart  is  lighter  now. 

Exit,  R.  3  E. 

Suz.  (taking  the  letter  out  of  her  pocket ) .  It's  no  such  d iffi - 
cult  matter  to  burn  the  letter.  But  how  to  get  him  to  go  is 
quite  another  affair  ;  he  won't  budge  if  he  can  help  it.  (Looks 
at  the  clock.')  There  is  still  time  for  him  to  pack  up  and  get 
off  by  the  nine  o'clock  train.  (Goes  to  fireplace  and  begins 
crumpling  the  letter  in  order  to  throw  it  into  the  fire.)  If  I 
could  but.  contrive  to  get  him  away  !  (Just  about  to  put  the 
letter  into  the  fire.)  No — not  the  envelope — I  have  no  right 
to  that.  (She  takes  the  paper  out  of  the  envelope.)  But  I 
must  put  something  in  the  place  of  our  precious  prize — any 


A  SCRAP  OF  PAPER  43 

scrap  of  paper  will  do.  ( Turns  to  table,  takes  up  a  piece  of 
blank  paper  from  it,  folds  it,  and  puts  it  in  the  envelope.) 
And  now  we'll  return  "Monsieur  the  Rev.  Mr.  Huggins  "  to 
the  Sandwich  Islands,  in  the  midst  of  the  tobacco.  Everything 
back  to  its  place.  (She  puts  back  into  the  jar  the  letters,  etc. , 
she  had  previously  taken  out  of  it,  stirs  them  up,  shakes  the 
jar,  and  sets  it  down  in  its  place.)  There — now  for  the  fatal 
billet  doux  !  (Approaches  the  fireplace.)  'Tis  a  great  pity — 
for  I  had  such  a  fancy  (lighting  the  paper)  for  making  him 
burn  it  himself.  (Putting  back  the  paper  which  is  alight,  and 
blowing  it  out.) 

READY  knock  L. 

Burn  it  himself — yes  !  what  was  it  he  swore ?  "I  give  you  my 
word  of  honor  that  if  you  manage  to  make  me  burn  the  letter 
myself,  I  will  pack  myself  off  this  very  evening  to  look  out  for 
a  wife  in  the  Cannibal  Islands — or  Jericho — or  where  you 
will."  He  gave  me  his  word  of  honor.  He's  an  oddity;  but 
he  would  keep  his  word,  I  am  sure  he  would — I  like  the  looks 
of  him.  Would  it  be  then  such  a  very  difficult  task  to  make 
him  burn  the  letter?  Let's  see — let's  see — (she  looks  into 
the  fireplace)  suppose  I  place  it  on  the  hearth  near  the  fire. 
(She  twists  the  paper  tip.)  That's  it — it  looks  exactly  as  if  he 
had  already  lighted  a  cigar  with  it.  (She  comes  away  from 
the  fire,  stands  R.  of  table  L.  c.  and  looks  around.)  It's  really 
getting  quite  exciting  !  How  it  would  amuse  me  to  make  him 
burn  it  himself!  (Listens.)  Some  one  is  coming  up-stairs. 
It's  he,  probably.  Oh  ! — there  mustn't  be  matches  about ! 
(Hastily  takes  match-box  from  mantel  and  throws  the  matches 
into  the  fire.)  That  will  do.  (Sits  down  in  armchair,  R.  of 
table  L.  c.) 

KNOCK  L*  2  E. 
READY  to  lower  lights* 

Oh  !  yes — knock  away.  Fn  not  going  to  hear  you.  (Leans 
back  and  closes  her  eyes.) 

Enter  PROSP.  quietly,  L.  2  E.  ;  he  looks  around  for  Suz. ,  and 
seeing  her  lying  back  in  armchair  approaches  her  on  tiptoe. 

PROSP.   (R.  c.).     Asleep  !     Overcome  with  fatigue  and  ut- 
terly discouraged.     (Looks  round  him.)     She  has  been  turn- 


44  A  SCRAP  OF  PAPER 

ing  everything  topsyturvy.  {Looks  into  room>  R.  4  E.,  and 
laughs.)  Yes,  and  there  too  !  Now  for  the  letter  !  Can  she 
have  found  it?  (Suz.  follows  him  with  the  corners  of  her 
eyes,  while  he  opens  the  tobacco  jar  and  sees  the  envelope.) 
No,  all  safe.  Come,  woman's  cunning  has  been  baffled  for 
once.  (Sits  down  R.  of  table  and  looks  at  Suz.)  I  am  very 
sorry  for  her  (looking  more  nearly)  ;  she  is  really  a  very  nice 
woman — pretty  hand — good  eyes  too — I  really  must  have 
another  look  at  her  eyes.  {Gets  up  and  bends  over  her.) 

Suz.  (opening  her  eyes  wide  and  looking  at  him).  What 
did  you  say  ? 

PROSP.  (staggering  back).     Knocked  clean  over  ! 

Suz.  {pretending  to  awake).  Oh  !  I  beg  your  pardon,  I 
believe  I  must  have  dropped  asleep. 

PROSP.     Pray  consider  yourself  at  home. 

Suz.   (rising).     What  o'clock  is  it  ? 

LIGHTS  down  slowly* 

PROSP.  {going  to  the  clock  on  the  mantelpiece  over  fireplace). 
Past  six. 

Suz.  So  late  !  Well,  I  can't  help  it — I  won't  give  up  my 
purpose;  and  here  I  shall  remain  at  my  post  till  that  purpose 
is  accomplished. 

PROSP.  Allow  me  to  admire  your  obstinacy.  It  is  the  most 
heroic  piece  of  chivalry  I  have  ever  seen. 

Suz.     Obstinacy  !     You  are  not  gallant. 

PROSP.     Well,  let  us  say  firmness. 

Suz.     Yes :  firmness  in  a  woman — obstinacy  in  a  man. 

PROSP.  Now  take  care,  you  are  pitting  yourself  against  a 
man  who  has  fought  with  Red  Indians,  and  won  his  tomahawk 
on  the  field.  I  have  been  dubbed  a  great  chief  myself,  and  it 
would  be  no  mean  glory  to  carry  off  my  scalp. 

READY  lights  up. 

Suz.  But,  great  chief,  spite  of  the  intense  satisfacton  I  should 
naturally  have  in  scalping  you,  I  have  better  motives  than  the 
desire  of  obtaining  such  questionable  glory.  But  please  light 
your  lamp — it  is  getting  quite  dark. 

PROSP.  Immediately.  {Takes  off  the  globe  of  the  lamp  on 
the  table  and  looks  at  it.)  There  !  that  fool  of  a  servant  has  put 
no  wick  in  the  lamp.  {He  rings.) 

Suz.     Then  light  a  candle — it  will  be  much  handie* 


A  SCRAP  OF  PAPER  45 

PROSP.  You  are  right.  (Hunts  about  for  matches.)  Of 
course,  there  may  exist  women  who  —  now  there's  not  a  match 
to  be  found  anywhere. 

Suz.     Then  take  a  piece  of  paper,  my  dear  sir. 

PROSP.  (seeing  the  piece  of  paper  on  the  hearth).  Ah  !  this 
will  do.  (Picks  up  paper.)  There  may  exist  women,  cer- 
tainly, who  are  so  far  traitors  to  their  nature  as  to  -  (He 
lights  the  paper.) 

Enter  FRAN.,  L.  2  E.,  with  a  lighted  lamp. 

LIGHTS  up  quickly. 

FRAN.     Did  you  ring  for  the  lamp,  sir? 

PROSP.  (blowing  out  the  paper  and  still  holding  it  in  his 
hand).  Yes—  that  will  do  —  put  it  down  there. 

Suz.  (aside).  Was  ever  anything  so  provoking  !  Anothei 
minute,  and  he  would  have  done  it. 


FRAN,  has  put  the  lamp  on  the  table,  R.  c.,  «^exit,  L.  2  E» 
taking  other  lamp  with  him. 

PROSP.  As  I  said,  there  may  be  women  who  —  in  short  — 
upon  my  word  I  don't  know  now  what  I  was  going  to  say. 

Suz.  You  are  going  to  say,  probably,  that  there  may  be 
women  who  would  do  and  sacrifice  much  for  the  peace  of  mind 
of  a  friend. 

PROSP.  (seated  R.  of  table,  holding  the  paper).  A  friend  !  a 
friend!  Have  women  female  friends?  (Aside.)  She  looks 
better  still  by  lamp-light. 

Suz.     You  don't  believe  in  friendship. 

PROSP.  In  that  respect  I  have  not  a  much  better  opinion  of 
my  own  sex  than  of  yours.  (Aside.)  I  can't  help  being 
fascinated  by  her  more  and  more. 

Suz.  (taking  the  envelope  and  false  letter  from  the  jar  me- 
chanically, and  playing  with  it  while  PROSP.  shows  his  agita- 
tion). Come,  that's  something.  You  have  generally  so  mar- 
velous an  opinion  of  your  own  superiority. 

READY  to  lower  lights* 

PROSP.  (laughing  at  seeing  the  letter  in  her  hand  and  shak- 
ing the  paper  he  holds).  We  certainly  sometimes  fancy  we  see 
more  clearly  than  your  sex.  (Laughs  ;  aside.)  She  little 
Knows  she's  got  the  letter.  (Aloud.)  Well,  if  I  be  an  egotist, 


46  A  SCRAP  OF  PAPER 

I  have  never  found  out  after  a  life's  experience  what  I  gained 
by  doing  good  to  others. 

Suz.  (throwing  back  the  envelope  into  the  jar}.  Gained  ! 
The  pleasure  of  doing  it.  Does  that  count  for  nothing  ?  Ah  ! 
if  you  knew  how  bright  the  world  would  look  to  you  under 
consciousness  of  having  done  good — if  you  knew  with  how 
light  a  heart  you  would  sleep  at  night— with  how  cheery  a 
spirit  you  would  raise  your  head  from  your  pillow  in  the  morn- 
ing, you  would  never  ask  again  what  you  would  gain. 

PROSP.   (surprised  and  pleased).     Perhaps — I  don't  know, 

Suz.     Exactly.     You  don't  know. 

PROSP.  (aside).  What  a  smile  the  woman  has  !  and  what  a 
heart  !  (Lets  fall  the  letter  on  the  carpet.) 

Suz.  (aside}.  Suppose  I  put  out  the  lamp ;  he  must  light  it 
again.  (She  begins  turning  the  lamp  up  and  down.) 

PROSP.  {with  enthusiasm).  Ah !  my  dear  madam,  if  it 
were  true — does  the  lamp  smoke  ? 

LIGHTS  down. 

Suz.  It  does  a  little.  {Puts  it  out.)  There — I've  put  it 
out. 

PROSP.  (aside).  So  much  the  better.  (Aloud.)  Ah  !  if  it 
were  true  that  your  heart  alone  prompted  you  to  give  me 
battle,  my  admiration  for  your  courage  would  give  place  to  a 
far  warmer  feeling.  I  don't  exactly  know  why,  but  it  is  a  fact, 
of  all  the  women  I  have  ever  seen  you  are  the  only  woman  who 
is  a  real  woman. 

Suz.  A  very  pretty  declaration,  upon  my  word — only  a 
little  obscure.  Perhaps  it  would  be  clearer  if  you  lighted  your 
lamp. 

PROSP.  (approaching  her).  Ah  !  the  fitful  flicker  of  the 
cozy  fire  on  the  hearth  is  better  suited  to  what  I  would  say. 

Suz.     Light  the  lamp,  sir  !  or  you'll  force  me  to  go  at 'once. 

READY  barking  of  dog  up  C 

PROSP.     But  I've  got  no  matches. 

Suz.     Will  you  light  the  lamp,  sir  ? 

PROSP.     I  declare  to  you 

Suz.     I'll  hear  no  declaration  till  you  light  the  lamp. 

PROSP.  I  dare  say  you  think  I  am  mad  !  I  am  not.  Per- 
haps it  was  the  most  sensible  thing  I  could  do  to  fall  in  love 
with  the  goddaughter  this  morning  and  the  godmother  this 
evening. 

READY  lights  up. 


A  SCRAP  OF  PAPER  47 

Suz.  (rising).     Well,  then,  since  you  drive  me  away,  sir. 
'(Goes  up.) 

PROSP.  Don't  go  —  don't  go  —  don't  leave  your  purpose 
unaccomplished.  You  have  made  me  believe  in  the  exist- 
ence of  a  woman's  heart  that  can  beat  with  kindliness  and 
purity.  Let  me  prove  myself  worthy  of  that  heart.  See  !  — 
here  is  the  letter!  (Takes  envelope  from  jar.)  I  yield  —  I 
burn  it  before  your  own  eyes. 

(Throws  the  envelope  into  the  fire.) 

Suz.  (aside).    Now  I  could  positively  hug  the  man  for  that  ! 

PROSP.  (taking  up  the  burning  envelope  with  the  tongs). 
Look,  madam,  it  burns  —  it  burns. 

Suz.  I  haven't  the  heart  to  send  him  away  now.  I  must 
confess  all. 

PROSP.     Shall  I  lay  down  the  ashes  at  your  feet  ? 

Suz.  (laughing).  Are  you  quite  sure  you  have  burned  the 
right  thing? 

PROSP.     Can  you  doubt  ? 

Suz.  Your  good  faith  ?  Oh  !  no.  But  pick  up  that  little 
scrap  of  paper  you  had  in  your  hand  just  now. 

PROSP.  (hunting  on  the  carpet).  That  little  scrap  of  paper  ! 
What  do  you  mean  ? 

Suz.   (pointing  it  out  laughing).     There  it  is  ! 

PROSP.  (picking  it  up  with  surprise).     Well,  and  what  then  ? 

BARKING  of  dog  off  C 

Suz.  (listening).     Hush  !  what's  that  I  hear  ? 

PROSP.  (going  to  window  up  c.).  The  barking  of  dogs  ! 
(Looks  out.)  Brisemouche  and  the  Baron  are  coming  toward 
the  house. 

Suz.  And  they  may  come  up-  stairs  !  Give  me  that  scrap 
of  paper,  quick  ! 

PROSP.  This  darkness  is  rather  awkward  —  I  understand. 
I'll  light  the  candle  at  once.  (He  lights  the  paper.) 

BARON  (without,  beneath  the  window).     Here,  Fidele  ! 

Suz.  (aside).     It  was  fated  that  he  should  burn  the  paper 


LIGHTS 

after  all!     (PROSP.  lights  the  candle  with  the  burning  paper, 
and  throws  it  out  of  the  window.)     Oh  !  what  have  you  done  ? 


48  A  SCRAP  OF  PAPER 

BARON  (as  before).  Holloa !  Do  you  mean  to  set  the 
house  on  fire  ? 

PROSP.  (at  window  looking  out).  Some  one  is  picking  it 
up  ! 

Suz.  (at  window).   The  Baron  !   Oh  !  we' re  lost !   (Downc.) 

PROSP.   {following  her).     What  do  you  mean  ? 

Suz.     That  was  the  very  letter. 

WARN  curtain. 

PROSP.  (bewildered}.     That  scrap  of  paper — /&?  letter? 

Suz-.  The  very  letter  !  Run  ! — quick  !— get  it  back  !  Why 
don't  you  run  ? 

PROSP.  (fating  his  head,  and  running  to  the  window).  I 
am  running  ! 

Suz.     Not  by  the  window,  man — by  the  door  ! 

PROSP.   (running  to  door,  L.).     Yes,  to  be  sure  ! 

Suz.     Not  that  way  ! 

PROS?.     No,  no,  of  course  not  ! 

(Runs  to  door,  R.,  throwing  down  all  the  furniture  in  his 

way.) 

Suz.     You'll  find  me  at  the  chateau  in  the  conservatory  ! 
PROSP.    I'll  have  it,  dead  or  alive  !    (Runs  out  R.  3  E.  door.) 
Suz.     Tb^-t  comes  of  being  too  clever  by  half  ! 

Exit,  rapidly,  L.  2  E. 

RING  quick  curtain, 

CURTAIN 


ACT  III 

. — A  conservatory  attached  to  the  chateau.  L.  C.,  sev- 
eral spreading  exotic  plants,  advancing  in  a  clump  on  the 
stage ;  R.  2  E. ,  door  leading  to  interior ;  same  side,  table 
and  easy  chairs  ;  behind,  the  glazed  portion  of  the  con- 
servatory, lined  with  climbing  plants ;  c. ,  the  entrance 
door  upon  the  park  ;  L.,  tubs  of  plants,  with  a  bench,  etc.  ; 
R.  2  E.,  the  dining-room  door.  The  scene  is  lighted  with 


A  SCRAP  OF  PAPER  49 

standing  lamps  and  hanging  Chinese  lanterns.  MAD.  D., 
C.,  is  taking  fruit  from  a  basket,  which  she  places  in  a 
tray,  and  hands  over  to  PAUL. 

MAD.  D.  There,  you  have  the  fruit.  (Exit  PAUL.,  R.  2  E. 
Enter  BAP.,  L.  2  E.)  So  you  are  back  from  accompanying 
the  Baron  out  shooting. 

BAP.  Yes ;  I've  just  had  time  to  make  myself  genteel.  The 
gentlemen  will  be  here  directly,  and  clamoring  for  their  dinner. 
So  stir  your  stumps,  old  girl.  {Crosses  to  R.  door.) 

MAD.  D.     Old  girl,  indeed  ! 

Enter  BRISE.,  L.  2  E.  door.  He  is  still  in  his  shooting-coat 
and  has  his  gun,  with  a  little  screwed-up  paper  stuck 
in  it. 

BRISE.  (L).  Ah,  Dupont,  there  you  are  !  Is  dinner  ready? 
I  want  my  dinner  awfully  !  There  is  no  time  to  go  home  and 
dress  for  dinner;  but  I  know  Madame  de  la  Glaciere  will 
excuse  me ;  and  I  am  dreadfully  tired  with  my  day's  sport. 

MAD.  D.  (R.).  You  have  bagged  a  great  deal  of  game,  I 
suppose,  sir? 

BRISE.  Game? — well,  not  exactly;  not  but  that  I'm  a 
good  shot,  when  I  choose — a  very  good  shot.  However,  I've 
brought  home  a  prize. 

MAD.  D.     A  fine  bird? 

BRISE.  No,  not  exactly.  Just  as  I  was  about  to  bring 
down  a  partridge — sure,  this  time — I  spied,  trotting  along  to 
his  nocturnal  lair,  a  tiger. 

MAD.  D.     A  tiger  !  good  gracious  ! 

BRISE.  Yes — a  tiger  ! — a  gold-winged  tiger — a  tiger-beetle ! 
the  most  beautiful  specimen.  With  one  eye  on  the  partridge, 
and  the  other  on  the  beetle,  I  missed  the  partridge,  but  I 
bagged  my  beetle;  and  here  he  is.  (Shows  the  screw  of 
paper  in  his  gun.)  Don't  touch  the  precious  creature  for  the 
life  of  you,  woman  !  {Goes  up  and  places  gun  against  settee, 
L.  C.,  up  stage.)  But  how  about  the  dinner  ? 

MAD.  D.  It  is  not  ready  yet;  but  the  Baron  is  just 
returned. 

BRISE.  Yes,  yes ;  he  left  me  under  Couramont's  window. 
While  dinner  is  getting  ready,  I  should  like  to  put  myself  to 
rights  a  little. 

BAP.  (advancing  R.  c.).     If  you  will  walk  this  way,  sir. 

Exit,  L.  2  E. 


50  A  SCRAP  OF  PAPER 

BRISK.     A  pretty  mess  my  tiger  hunt  has  put  my  hands  in, 
(Turns  at  door.)     Has  my  sister  come  yet? 
MAD.  D.     I  have  not  seen  her,  sir. 

Enter  PAUL.,  R.  2  E. 

BRISK.  She's  still  at  her^  toilet.  She  is  so  very  particular 
about  her  toilet.  She  has  so  much  decency  and  decorum. 

Exit,  L.  2  E. 

PAUL.  Well,  for  my  part,  I  think  if  that  Mademoiselle 
Zenobie  had  so  much  decency  and  decorum,  she  might  just 
show  them  by  not  trotting  after  that  young  Monsieur  Anatole. 

(Looks  into  the  park.) 

MAD.  D.  Hold  your  tongue.  I  won't  have  any  scandal- 
mongering;  and  don't  stand  idling  there  !  The  company  will 
take  coffee  here. 

PAUL.  You  needn't  stare  at  me,  madam — I'm  off!  I'm 
going  to  change  my  handkerchief.  (Crosses  to  L.)  This  is  a 
shockingly  unbecoming  one — makes  one  look  like  a  common 
housemaid. 

Exit,  L.  door. 

MAD.  D.  Yes;  that's  all  one  sees  nowadays — an  affected 
creature  that  can't  stitch  a  hem,  but  wants  an  hour  every  day 
for  her  piano !  Good  Lord  !  what  will  the  world  come  to 
next? 

Exit  into  dining-room,  R.  2  E. 

Enter  PROSP.,  c.  n.tfrom  L.,  agitated,  and  out  of  breath. 
PROSP.   (L.  c.).     In  the  conservatory,  she  said 

Enter  Suz.,  R.   2  E.,./#  agitation.     She  still  carries  LOUISE'S 

shawl. 

Suz.  (R.).     You've  got  it? 
PROSP.  (L.).     Haven't  you? 
Suz.     No. 
PROSP.     Nor  I. 

PROSP. 


A  SCRAP  OF  PAPER  5 1 

Suz.     What  have  you  been  doing  ? 

PKOSP.  I  rushed  down  the  stairs — I  don't  know  how — heels 
over  head  !  When  I  got  out  of  the  house — no  one — nothing — 
not  a  ghost  of  a  scrap  of  paper.  "  Now,  one  of  two  things 
must  have  happened,"  said  I;  "either  the  Baron  stamped  on 
the  paper  to  put  it  out,  or  picked  it  up  to  see  that  it  was  extin- 
guished. But,  as  the  paper  was  no  longer  there,  it  is  most 
probable  he  flung  it  aside  as  he  walked  along.  Suppose,  then, 
I  follow  his  trail,  and  hunt  on  the  ground?"  So  I  followed 
his  trail  and  hunted 

Suz.     But  you  found  nothing  ? 

PROSP.     Absolutely  nothing. 

Suz.     Perhaps  the  wind  has  wafted  it  away. 

PROSP.  But  there  isn't  a  breath  of  air.  (Sits  down  in 
despair  on  settee  near  gun.)  Then  I've  all  to  begin  over  again 
to-morrow  morning. 

Suz.     What  do  you  mean  by  to-morrow  morning? — directly. 

PROSP.   (shivering).     Without  an  overcoat  ?     (Rises.) 

Suz.  Would  you  leave  some  one  else  to  pick  it  up  and 
bring  it  to  the  Baron  ?  Go  at  once. 

PROSP.  (buttoning  up  his  coat  and  shivering).  Well,  I'm 
going.  Brr,  brr ! 

Suz.     Poor  fellow  !  here,  take  this  shawl. 

(Throws  LOUISE'S  shawl  about  him.) 

PROSP.     No,  no — I  really  can't ! 

Suz.     But  I  say  you  must. 

PROSP.  (while  Suz.  wraps  him  tip  in  the  shawl).  You  do 
with  me  what  you  will.  I'm  caught — bandaged ;  and  (she 
puts  the  shawl  over  his  mouth)  muzzled  ! 

Suz.     Now  go,  quick — I  implore  you  ! 

PROSP.  I  go  !  (with  thick  voice)  muzzled — positively  muz- 
zled !  (Runs  out  c.  door  to  L.) 

Suz.  (c.).  Here  have  I  been,  ever  since  morning,  running 
up  and  down,  round  and  round,  like  a  squirrel  in  his  cage — 
worrying  myself  to  death,  all  about  a  stupid  little  scrap  of  paper 
and  a  tiresome  man — hang  him  !  I'm  so  provoked  with  him 
that  I  could — poor  fellow  !  I'm  sure  he's  giving  himself  trouble 
enough  to  undo  all  the  mischief  he  has  done  !  I  can't  be 
angry  with  him  !  But  I  am  all  the  more  enraged  with  the  silly 
folks  who  are  idiotic  enough  to  write  insane  love  letters  !  "  I 
love  you — I  love  you  !  " — is  all  very  pretty  to  say;  but  it  isn't 
the  thing  to  write  / — and  looks  so  cold  on  paper.  I'm  sure, 


52  A  SCRAP  OF  PAPER 

if  I  were  to  send  all  the  loves  in  the  world  in  a  letter  to  any 
one — this  Monsieur  Prosper,  for  instance — they  wouldn't  call 
up  one  flush  of  color  in  his  face.  Halloa  !  what's  this  ?  (Puts 
both  hands  to  her  face.)  They  seem  to  have  called  one  up  in 
mine,  though.  Oh !  come,  come  !  I'm  not  going  to  be  so 
absurd,  I  hope,  as  to  allow  myself  to  be  thinking  about  this 
good  gentleman — pooh,  pooh  ! — this  will  never  do,  Madem- 
oiselle Suzanne  !  Mademoiselle  Suzanne,  I  must  have  an  eye 
upon  you,  and  see  what  you  are  about,  Mademoiselle 

Enter  MATH.,  L.  2  E. 

MATH.  (L.  ).  Ah,  godmother,  there  you  are !  Have  you 
seen  Anatole  ? 

Suz.  (R.  ;  aside).  Poor  child^she  isn't  troubled  with  any 
scruples.  (Aloud.)  No,  my  dear — \\&\z  you  seen  the  Baron? 

MATH,  (up  stage  looking  off  into  park).  No  ;  but  I  heard  him 
stumping  up  and  down  in  his  room  like  a  wild  beast  in  his  den. 

Suz.  (alarmed}.  Has  he  discovered  the  truth  then  ?  (En- 
ter BAP.,  L.  2  E.,  crosses  to  R.  2  E.,  at  back.  Sees  him.)  Ah, 
Baptiste  was  with  the  shooting  party — he  may  have  seen  what 
passed.  (To  BAP.,  who  is  going  out  R.  2  E.)  Baptiste,  a  word 
with  you.  Mathilde,  dear,  do  you  think  dinner  is  getting 
ready  ? 

MATH.     I'll  go  and  see. 

Exit  into  dining-room,  R.  2  E. 

Suz.  (L.).  Baptiste,  you  accompanied  the  gentlemen  out 
shooting  ? 

BAP.  (R.).     Yes,  my  lady. 

Suz.  You  were  with  them  when  a  lighted  paper  was  flung 

out  of  a  window  of  Monsieur  Brisemouche's  house? 

BAP.  A  lighted  paper  ?     Oh  !  yes,  I  recollect ! 

Suz.  Who  picked  it  up  ? 

BAP.  Really,  I  can't  tax  my  memory,  my  lady. 

Suz.  Think — was  it  the  Baron  ? 

BAP.  My  master  ?     I  fancy  it  was 

Suz.  It  was? 

BAP.  I  don't  exactly  remember 

Suz.  (aside).     The  man  will  drive  me  mad  ! 

BAP,  Oh  !  no,  I  recollect,  /  picked  it  up 

Suz.  You  !     What  did  you  do  with  it  ? 

BAP.  I  believe  I  flung  it  away — no,  I  didn't 


A  SCRAP  OF  PAPER  5'$ 

Suz.     Then  you've  got  it? 

BAP.  No,  I  haven't,  my  lady.  Ah!  I  know  now — I  handed 
it  to  Monsieur  Brisemouche,  who  asked  me  for  it. 

(AN AT.    appears   c.   door,   and,  seeing  the   others,  conceals 

himself.) 

Suz.     You  gave  it  to  Monsieur  Brisemouche  ? 

BAP.     No,  I  didn't,  my  lady 

Suz.     Grant  me  patience  !     You  said 

BAP.     He  took  it  out  of  my  hand. 

Suz.  (aside).  Brisemouche  has  it — unlucky  chance  ! — there 
is  no  trusting  such  a  man.  (Aloud.)  Do  you  know  where 
he  is? 

BAP.     He  was  here  just  now,  my  lady — I  will  call  him ! 

(Crosses  to  L.) 

Suz.  No,  no,  don't  call  him — no  noise — let  him  know  I 
want  to  see  him.  (Exit  BAP.,  L.  2  E.)  I  must  get  it  from 
him  without  awakening  his  suspicions.  I  am  on  burning  coals, 
and  cannot  control  my  impatience  !  I'll  watch  for  him  in  the 
hall! 

Exit,  L.  2  E.     AN  AT.  comes  forward. 
AN  AT.  (c.).     They  are  gone — I  think  I  may  venture  — 

(  Crosses  to  R. ) 
Enter  MAD.  D.,/rom  dining-room,  R.  2  E.,  and  meets  him. 

MAD.  D.     Bless  my  heart !     Monsieur  Anatole ! 

ANAT.     Hush,  hush,  not  a  word  ! 

MAD.  D.  (low).  Mademoiselle  Zenobie  le$  me  know  you 
wouldn't  dine  here.  (They  come  down.) 

ANAT.  (sorrowfully).  Yes;  she  packed  me  off  to  my 
tutor's  in  the  market  cart,  and  told  old  Jean  to  keep  an  eye  on 
me.  But  I  persuaded  him  to  get  down  for  a  glass  of  brandy — 
jumped  out  of  the  cart — and  here  I  am. 

MAD.  D.  And  now  you  are  here,  what  do  you  mean  to  do 
here? 

ANAT.  (L.).  Why — see  her — tell  her  I  love  her — love  her  a 
thousand  times  more  than  ever.  I  mean  to  hide  here  in  the 
conservatory,  where  there  will  be  no  Zenobie  at  my  heels. 
But,  first  of  all,  I  must  write  to  Mademoiselle  Mathilde. 


54  A  SCRAP  OF  PAPER 

(Feels  in  his  pockets.}  Now  there,  I've  lost  my  pocketbook  ! 
But  here's  the  pencil  !  Give  me  a  scrap  of  paper — any  scrap 
of  paper 

MAD.  D.  (R.)«  Yes,  I  dare  say,  and  I  suppose  you'll  want 
me  to  carry  your  letter  next  ? 

ANAT.     Of  course,  you  won't  refuse  me? 

MAD.  D.  Of  course  I  shall !  Well,  I  never  ! — the  impu- 
dence. (Aside.)  I'd  better  go  or  he  would  wheedle  me  over 
in  no  time — the  little  rascal  1 

Exit  into  dining-room,  R.  2  E. 

ANAT.  What  am  I  to  do  now  ?  I  can't  write  without  paper 
— oh  !  bother  !  (Sits  down  in  despair  on  bench  L.  at  the  oppo- 
site end  to  BRISK. 's  gun. )  What's  this? — a  paper  screwed  up. 
(Takes  the  horn  of  the  paper  out  of  the  gun  and  shakes  it.) 
There's  something  inside.  (Opens  it.)  Oh  !  lud,  a  beetle! 
—one  of  my  guardian's  treasures.  Well,  what  matter  to  him, 
a  beetle  more  or  less?  He'll  think  he  lost  it  as  he  came  along. 
(Shakes  out  the  beetle.)  Poor  thing,  it  little  dreams  it  owes  its 
life  to  the  power  of  love.  (Tears  burnt  end  from  paper.) 
There,  it  looks  better  with  that  ragged  edge  torn  off — there's 
writing  on  it — never  mind,  there's  one  side  clean,  that  will  do. 
(Writes.)  " They  wanted  to  send  me  away,  but  I  have  re- 
turned. They  say  I  must  complete  my  studies — but  my  only 
study  henceforth  will  be  to  make  you  happy  by  becoming  your 
husband.  I  have  hidden  myself  in  the  conservatory — forever 
and  ever  your " 

BRISK,  (without,  L.).  The  paper,  the  paper,  what  do  you 
mean?  (ANAT.  springs  in  among  the  bushes,  R.  c.,  and  hides. 
Enter  BRISK.,  followed  by  Suz.,  L.  2  E.  BRISK.  R.,  aloud.) 
What  is  all  this  about  a  paper?  I  haven't  the  slightest  com- 
prehension of  what  you  mean  ! 

Suz.  (L.).     For  heaven's  sake,  don't  talk  so  loud  ! 

BRISK.     But  what  paper? 

Suz.  A  scrap  of  paper,  set  on  fire  and  thrown  out  of  Mon- 
sieur Prosper's  window,  to  be  sure  ! 

BRISK.  Oh  !  the  scrap  of  paper  set  on  fire  and — then  why 
didn't  you  say  so  at  once? 

Suz.  At  all  events,  I  say  so  now.  But  where  is  it?— 
where  is  it  ? — where  is  it  ? 

BRISK.  But  what  can  you  want  with  only  a  scrap  of  paper 
— half  burned,  too — a  little  paltry  scrap  not  worth  — 


A  SCRAP  OF  PAPER  55 

Suz.  (exasperated).     What — did— you— do— with — it  ? 

BRISK.     I  made  a  cage  of  it. 

Suz.     A  cage  ? 

BRISE.  Yes ;  to  enclose  a  beautiful  specimen  of  the  tiger- 
beetle,  which  tickled  the  palm  of  my  hand  so  confoundedly, 
kicking  about  in  it  that  I 

Suz.  (R.).     But  again — where  is  it  ? 

BRISK.     Oh  !     I  stuck  it  into  my  gun. 

{Goes  up  and  brings  down  his  gun  to  L.  of  Suz.  without  look' 
ing  at  it.) 

Suz.     I  have  it  now  ! 

BRISE.     Why,  it's  no  longer  there  !     {Looks  at  his  gun.) 
Suz.     No  longer  there  ? 
BRISE.     Clean  gone ! 
Suz.   (alarmed).     Lost  ! 

BRISE.     Oh  !    the  little  monster  of  a  beetle  !     He  must  have 
kicked  about  so  much  that  he  rolled  down,  cage  and  all. 
Suz.     Then  it  can't  be  gone  far ;  let  us  hunt  about  for  it. 

{Goes  up  stage  looking  anxiously  about.) 

BRISE.  (iip  L.  C.,  hunting  among  the  plants').  It's  remark- 
able— it's  very  remarkable  how  intelligent  these  little  animals 
are.  I'll  write  a  paper  on  the  subject  for  the  Entomological 
Society  of  the  Department — a  most  interesting  paper.  (Sud- 
denly.) Oh  !  I've  found — (S%z.  comes  down,  thinking  he  has 
found  the  paper)  I've  found  such  a  good  title  !  "  The  Insect's 
Escape;  or,  the  Beetle's  Bastille."  (Suz.  turns  away  an- 
grily.) Hey  !  a  capital  title  ! 

Suz.  (hunting  in  vain).  Nothing — nothing  !  but  have  it  I 
must.  Look  everywhere — look  everywhere !  (Seeing  the 
BARON  coming.)  No,  no — don't  look — don't  look  anywhere. 

(Hurriedly  comes  down  R.  C.) 
BRISE.   (upstage;  surprised).     Eh!  what? 

Enter  BARON,  LOUISE,  and  ZENO.,  L.  2  E.     The  latter  saunters 
to  back,  near  door. 

BARON.     Well,  ain't  we»going  to  dine  to-day?^ 
Enter  MATH.  ,  from  dining-room,  R.  2  E. 
MATH.     Yes ;  dinner  is  all  ready. 


56  A   SCRAP  OF  PAPER 

Enter  BAP.,  from  dining-room,  R.  2  E. 

BAP.   (at  entrance).     Dinner  is  on  the  table,  my  lady. 

BARON  (L.  c.).     That's  all  right. 

LOUISE  (coming  down  to  Suz.  and  whispering).  Gone 
away  ? 

Suz.  (absent,  and  hunting  about  after  the  beetle  with  her 
eyes}.  Yes,  gone  !  entirely  gone  ;  a  tiresome  little  beast ! 

LOUISE  (surprised}.  A  tiresome  little  beast  !  Monsieur 
Prosper  ? 

Suz.  Monsieur  Prosper  !  No — yes  !  (Aside.)  Poor  fel- 
low ! 

LOUISE.  Now  he  is  gone,  and  my  letter  burned,  I  breathe 
more  freely.  (Goes  up  R.) 

Suz.  (aside).     Do  you  ?     And  I  am  suffocating  ! 

BARON  (looking  at  Suz.).  Anxious  and  embarrassed — 
matters  are  not  made  up  then.  I  must  take  the  affair  upon 
myself,  I  see.  {Crosses  and  offers  his  arm  to  Suz.)  Cousin 
Suzanne ! 

(R.     BRISE.    offers   his  arm  to  ZENO.,  LOUISE  crosses  to  R. 
2  E.  to  follow  BAP.  into  dining-room.) 

Suz.  (taking  his  arm  mechanically,  and  looking  back  as  she 
follows  the  party  into  the  dining-room).  Ah  !  thank  you. 

MATH.   (c.  as  Suz.  passes).     Have  you  lost  anything? 

Suz.     Nothing,  only  a  little  beast — 1  mean  a  brooch. 

BARON  (stopping  near  door  R.).  Here  !  in  the  conserva- 
tory? 

Suz.  (eagerly).  Oh  !  don't  think  of  looking  for  it — it's  not 
worth  the  trouble,  I  assure  you.  (Low  over  her  shoulder  to 
MATH.)  Tell  Madame  Dupont  to  come  and  speak  to  me. 

Exit  with  the  BARON  into  the  dining-room  after  the  others, 
MATH,  going  last. 

MATH,  (apart ;  going).  I  will.  And  to  think  of  Anatole 
not  coming  after  all.  Oh  !  I'll  give  it  to  him  when  I  catch 
him. 

Exit  into  dining-room,  R.  2  E.  ANAT.  opens  the  branches  of 
the  plants,  R.  c. ,  and  creeps  out  on  all-fours,  his  letter  in 
his  hand. 

ANAT.  At  last  I'm  free  again.  And  I  can't  say  I  was  very 
comfortable  in  there,  amidst  a  quantity  of  outlandish  plants 


A  SCRAP  OF  PAPER  57 

that  scraped  my  face  and  poked  my  neck,  and  picked  my  legs ; 
but  now,  how  to  send  my  letter  ? 

He  goes  up  and  looks  out   into   the  park.     Enter   PAUL., 
L.  2  E.,  with  a  smart  handkerchief. 

PAUL.  Come,  I  look  something  like  now.  (Going  toward 
(fining-room ,  sees  ANAT.)  Well,  if  there  isn't  Mademoiselle 
Zenobie's  young  gentleman  ! 

READY  off  R*  noise  of  plates* 

ANAT.  (R.,  turning,  alarmed}.  Ah  !  pray,  my  good  young 
woman,  don't  tell  anybody  that  you  have  seen  me  here. 
Nobody  must  know — nobody  ! 

PAUL.  (L.).  Make  your  mind  easy,  sir.  It's  my  business 
to  hold  my  tongue.  (Aside.)  When  I'm  not  paid  to  the  con- 
trary. 

ANAT.  (aside).  Oh !  perhaps  she  would  take  the  letter — 
I've  read  of  such  things  in  novels.  Suppose  I  tried.  (Aloud.) 
Mademoiselle  ! 

(Beckons  her.     She  comes  to  L.  of  him.) 

PAUL.     Sir ! 

ANAT.  (awkward  and  embarrassed).  You — you— you  are 
very  pretty,  Mademoiselle. 

PAUL.     I've  heard  people  say  so,  sir. 

ANAT.  (as  before,  with  his  eyes  cast  down).  And  people 
say  very  right.  But — but — there's  one  thing  you  haven't  got  ! 

PAUL,  (looking  at  him  fiercely).     Not  fine  eyes,  I  suppose. 

ANAT.  Oh  !  yes,  you  have  very  fine  eyes — no,  I  mean  a 
pair  of  nice  ear-drops. 

PAUL,  (aside).  So  bribery  and  corruption  is  our  little 
game. 

ANAT.  (aside).  I  hope  she  won't  Vpe  inj^jgjiantr  and  fly  in 
a  passion.  (Very  timidly.)  Oh  !  if  I  dafidto 

(Slips  a  purse  in  her  hand.) 

PAUL.     Anything  you  please,  sir. 

ANAT.  (delighted).  May  I  ?  Then  just  take  this  letter  for 
me,  will  you  ? 

PAUL,   (taking  the  letter).     I  needn't  ask  who  it's  for. 

(Laughing,  crosses  to  R.) 


58  A   SCRAP  OF  PAPER 

ANAT.     And  you'll  give  it  to  her?     (Follows.) 
PAUL.     Do  you  think  I  don't  know  my  business? 
ANAT.     (enchanted).     Pauline,  I  must  kiss  you  for  that, 

(Kisses  her.) 

PAUL.     I  suppose  I  am  to  keep  that  for  myself,  sir. 
Exit  into  dining-room,  R.  2  E. 

ANAT.  Oh  !  I'm  going  it — I  really  am  going  it ! — running 
away — hiding  in  secret  places — sending  clandestine  billet  doux 
— and  kissing  chambermaids — oh  !  it's  just  like  a  novel ! 
Who's  there?  Deuce  take  him  !  (Hides,  R.  c.,  in  bushes.) 

Enter  PROSP.,  c.  door,  from  L.,  wrapped  in  the  shawl. 

PROSP.  (c.).  Nothing — I've  got  nothing  but  the  rheumatism, 
and  a  perfectly  wolfish  hunger. 

NOISE  of  plates  and  glasses  off  R, 

Oh  !  yes !  all  the  others  are  at  dinner,  satisfying  their  vile 
appetites  without  me.  Was  ever  man  in  a  more  ridiculous 
position — a  more  ridiculous  attire?  Prosper,  my  friend,  you 
are  a  pretty  fellow,  after  sailing  round  the  world  in  safety,  to 
be  wrecked  all  at  once  on  the  reefs  of  woman's  wheedledom  ! 
This  shawl  is  like  the  shirt  of  Nessus.  It  burns  me  to  the 
heart's  core ;  and  yet  I  cannot  tear  it  off !  Dear  shawl !  and 

dearer   owner   of  the    shawl !    whom  I — I (Kisses  the 

shawl.)  There,  don't  mince  the  matter,  idiot !  it's  no  use — 
whom  I  love  !  whom  I  adore  !  Ton  my  soul,  I  must  adore 
her,  if  I  go  raving  up  and  down  here  all  day  instead  of  getting 
my  dinner. 

Goes  toward  R.     Enter  MAD.  D.  from  dining-room,  R.  2  E. 

MAD.  D.     Sir ! 

PROSP.  Don't  stop  me — (crossing  to  R.  2  E.)  I'm  dying  of 
hunger  !  (MAD.  D.  lays  hold  of  his  shawl.)  Don't  touch  that 
shawl,  woman  ! 

MAD.  D.     But  you  are  Monsieur  Prosper. 

(Pulls  him  down  stage.) 

PROSP.  (MAD.  D.  as  before).  Don't  touch  my  shawl,  I  tell 
you  !  (Makes  a  rush  at  the  dining-room.') 


A   SCRAP  OF  PAPER  59 

MAD.  D.     But  Mademoiselle  Suzanne  told  me 

PROSP.  (returning  eagerly}.  Mademoiselle  Suzanne  ?  What 
of  her? 

MAD.  D.  (mysteriously}.  She  told  me  to  look  for  you  as 
you  came  in,  and  let  you  know  she  had  lost,  somewhere  about 
here,  a  paper  with  a  little  beast  in  it. 

PROSP.  (R.  c.).  A  little  beast?  What's  the  little  beast  to 
me? 

MAD.  D.  (L.  c.).  I'm  sure  I  don't  know — only  she  said  you 
were  to  look  for  it — and  told  me  to  ask  for  her  shawl. 

PROSP.  (giving  up  the  shawl').  Her  shawl?  Give  it  up? 
That  completes  my  misery  !  (Sinks  down  on  a  chair  R.)  I'm 
a  dead  man  ! 

MAD.  D.     Dead,  sir?     (Crosses  to  R.  2  E.) 

PROSP.  (with  dignity).  Go,  woman,  go,  and  leave  me  to 
die  alone.  (Exit  MAD.  D.,  R.  2  E.,  with  the  shawl,  expressing 
astonishment.}  If  I  stop  and  hunt  for  the  little  beast,  I  sha'n't 
be  able  to  get  any  dinner.  If  I  don't  hunt,  and  go  into  the 
dining-room,  she'll  fulminate  me  with  a  reproachful  glance, 
and  I  sha'n't  be  able  to  eat  any  dinner,  for  shame  !  No ! 
(Rises.)  I  am  her  slave  !  her  negro  slave  !  I  am  doomed  to 
serve  all  her  little  caprices,  however  absurd  and  ridiculous,  and 
hunt  for  little  beasts  !  To  your  work,  hound  !  to  your  work  ! 
You  have  been  chained  and  muzzled,  and  now  you  are  to  hunt 
for  misses — so  ho,  sir !  so  ho !  hunt  for  misses !  seek  for  the 
little  beast !  seek  hound,  seek  ! 

(He  goes  up  hunting  and  sniffing  about,  and  disappears  for  a 
moment  in  the  conservatory  at  L.) 

AN  AT.  (coming  down  R.  as  PROSP.  goes  up}.  I  don't  hear 
any  one  now — they  are  all  at  dinner.  (Looks  out  cautiously 
R.  2  E.)  I  can  see  them  all — they  are  changing  plates.  (PROSP. 
reappears,  and  comes  down  hunting,  first  L.,  then  R.,  and 
finally  sits  down  wearily  on  settee.}  Ah  !  the  maid  servant  is 
making  signs  to  me.  (Makes  signs  in  return.}  Yes — yes — 
now's  your  time  !  She's  taking  up  a  plate  and  going.  Holloa  ! 
where  the  deuce  is  she  going?  Oh  !  you  little  fool,  it  isji't — 
goodness  gracious  !  She  has  given  my  letter  to  Mademoiselle 
Zenobie — oh  ! 

PROSP.  (seated  on  bench,  L.,  turning  suddenly}.  What's 
that?  (ANAT.  hides  in  the  clump  of  bushes,  R.)  I  heard  a 
sort  of  scream.  Can  I  have  trod  on  a  little  beast?  (He  looks 


60  A  SCRAP  OF  PAPER 

about  again  and  picks  up  the  end  of  a  burnt  paper.*}  A  little 
bit  of  pink  paper  burnt  at  the  edge.  Why,  it's  a  portion  of  the 
very  letter  ! — torn  ?  who  can  have  torn  it — who  ?  (Enter 
BARON  from  dining-room,  R.  2  E.)  Ah — I  see— it's  clear 
enough  !  It  must  have  been  the  husband  himself. 

BARON  (R.).  I  thought  I  heard  a  voice.  (Perceives  him.) 
Ah — it's  you  ! 

PROSP.  (rising).  I  beg  your  pardon — I'm  afraid  I'm  rather 
late.  (Goes  to  dining-room.) 

BARON  (stopping  him).     Two  words,  if  you  please. 

PROSP.  (aside,  coming  back  L.).  I  shall  have  to  fight  on  an 
empty  stomach. 

BARON.  Do  you  still  entertain  the  same  views  you  did  this 
morning? 

PROSP.  (aside).     They  will  have  done  dinner  soon. 

BARON.     Do  you  still  entertain  the  same  views 

PROSP.  Yes — no — that  is — (aside)  I  had  forgotten  all  about 
that!  (Aloud.)  Well,  in  principle,  yes — in  practice,  no; 
certainly  not — in  fact,  Madame  de  la  Glaciere  displayed  so 
much  opposition  to  my  projects 

BARON.     She  had  her  reasons,  probably. 

PROSP.     I  don't  know  what  reasons. 

BARON  (quietly).  Her  unwillingness  probably  to  see  you 
sacrificing  an  old  attachment  to  a  new  fancy. 

PROSP.  (after  looking  at  him  steadily).  Indeed  !  (Aside.) 
Nothing  like  making  the  plunge  at  once.  (  With  a  change  of 
manner.)  I  see,  sir,  that  you  know  all. 

BARON.     All. 

PROSP.  Then  perhaps  you'll  permit  the  conversation  to 
drop  until  after  dinner. 

(Attempts  again   to   enter  dining-room ;  stopped  by  BARON. 
They  come  down  again.) 

BARON  (L.).  I  beg  pardon,  sir — the  affair  is  too  serious  to 
admit  of  any  delay. 

PROSP.  (R.).  Serious — serious  !  After  all,  there's  nothing 
so  very  serious  in  the  matter.  I  admit  that  I  entertained  a 
very  strong  regard  for  the  lady — that  there  was  a  sort  of  under- 
standing between  us,  and  that  we  even  had  a  trifling  corre- 
spondence; but  that  was  all — and  the  lady  has  no  longer  the 
slightest  regard  for  me. 

BARON.     Her  affection  is  undiminished. 


A   SCRAP  OF  PAPER  6l 

FROSP.  I  beg  your  pardon — I  beg  your  pardon — I  give  you 
nay  word  of  honor  that 

BARON.     She  has  confessed  it  to  me  herself. 

PROSP.     Confessed  /// — confessed  what? 

BARON.     Her  attachment  to  you. 

PROSP.     She  confessed  that  to  you  ? 

BARON.     To  me. 

PROSP.   (aside).     I'm  thunderstruck  ! 

BARON.  She  has  told  me  all,  sir.  Your  desertion  of  her 
upon  the  most  unfounded  suspicion ;  your  long  absence  in 
consequence ;  and,  spite  of  your  unkindness,  the  affection  she 
still  bears  you 

PROSP.     She  told  you  that  f 

BARON.     She  told  me  that. 

PROSP.  (aside).  Well,  I  must  say  she  might  have  chosen 
another  confidant.  (Aloud.)  I  understand  you,  sir;  and  you 
have  sought  me  to  demand  a  reparation  at  the  sword's  point. 

BARON.  Far  from  it — to  try  and  effect  a  reconciliation  be- 
tween you. 

PROSP.  (stupefied).     What  ! 

BARON.     And  to  take  you  by  the  hand. 

(Stretches  out  his  hand.) 

PROSP.     You  are  too  good.    (Aside.)   Too  good,  a  vast  deal ! 

BARON.     Her  happiness  is  in  your  hands. 

PROSP.     Is  it  ? 

BARON.     Make  her  happy,  then. 

PROSP.  (shaking  hands).  I  should  be  delighted  to  oblige 
you,  but 

BARON.     And  make  me  happy,  too^  • 

PROSP.  But,  my  dear  sir,  have  you  maturely  considered 
what  you  are  proposing  to  me  ? 

BARON.  Do  you  think,  sir,  I  would  permit  you  to  refuse  a 
lady  so  closely  allied  to  me — after  proffering  her  the  most 
ardent  attachment — the  satisfaction  she  has  a  right  to  demand  ? 

PROSP.  Surely  Madame  de  la  Glaciere  could  never  have 
sent  you  to 

BARON.  I  must  insist,  sir,  you  don't  mix  up  my  wife's 
name  in  this  business. 

PROSP.  But  how  the  deuce,  sir,  am  I  to  do  otherwise? 
Oh  !  I  have  had  enough  of  this — you'll  drive  me  mad,  fam- 
ished as  I  am.  Do  what  you  like — fight,  or  go  to  the— — 


62  A  SCRAP  OF  PAPER 

BARON.     Not  another  word.     Time  and  place. 
PROSP.   (exasperated}.     When  you  please  ! 

Enter  Suz.  and  LOUISE  hastily  from  dining- ro am  t  R.  a  E. 

Suz.  (aside).     That  is  what  I  feared. 

LOUISE  (aside).     A  challenge  !     All  is  lost ! 

Suz.  (throwing  herself  between  them  at  c.).  Ah,  Prosper  ! 
has  the  Baron's  persuasion,  then,  had  no  more  power  over  you 
than  my  tears  ? 

PROSP.    (surprised).     Hey!  what? 

Suz.     Would  you  wish  to  see  me  at  your  feet? 

BARON.     Never  would  I  suffer  such  a  humiliation  ! 

PROSP.   (aside).     What  the  deuce  does  all  this  mean  ? 

Suz.  But  when  I  swear,  Prosper,  that  I  never  deceived  you. 
(Low  to  him.)  Back  me  up  in  all  I  say.  (Aloud.)  It  was 
only  a  misapprehension.  (Aside. )  Back  me  up. 

PROSP.   (bewildered).     But  I  don't  see 

Suz.  (low  to  him).  Don't  be  stupid  !  (Aloud.)  You  don't 
see  that  you  break  my  heart  ? 

PROSP.     Break  your  heart ! 

Suz.  Yes,  my  loving  heart,  and  you  are  still  silent !  Speak, 
sir,  speak  ! 

BARON.     Now,  sir,  what  have  you  to  say  ? 

PROSP.  I  have  to  say — I  have  to  say (Aside.)  Oh  ! 

I  have  her  now  !  (Aloud.)  That  if  all  she  says  be  true 

Suz.  Can  you  doubt  me,  Prosper?  (Apart  to  him.) 
That's  right,  go  on — go  on  ! 

PROSP.  (aside).  That's  right,  is  it?  Just  you  wait  a  bit. 
(Aloud.)  And  you  swear  that  you  have  never  been  faithless 
to  me? 

Suz.  Oh  !  never,  never !  (Apart  to  him,)  Go  on — 
go  on  ! 

PROSP.     That  you  love  me  still  ? 

Suz.     Love  you  !     Oh  !  yes  ! 

PROSP.  Then,  madam,  I  own  that  I,  too,  love — adore  you  ! 
I  swear  it  before  these  witnesses  of  our  mutual  affection. 

Suz.   (apart  to  him).     That  will  do,  now  !     Quite  enough  ! 

PROSP.  And  I  am  ready  to  marry  you,  madam,  as  soon  as 
you  will. 

Suz.     What  are  you  doing? 

PROSP.     Backing  you  up. 

Suz.   (apart  to  him).     In  make  believe,  of  course. 


A   SCRAP  OF  PAPER  63 

PROSP.  (aside}.  Deuce  a  bit !  In  downright  earnest ! 
d.}  Come  to  my  arms,  Suzanne  ! 

Suz.  (springing  back}.  You  go  too  far,  sir — you  go  too 
far. 

BARON  (pushing  her  into  PROSP. 's  arms}.  Never  mind  us, 
Suzanne ;  it's  all  in  the  family.  Embrace  him,  I  tell  you. 

PROSP.   (embracing  her}.     O  Suzanne  ! 

Suz.     O  Prosper  !     (Apart  to  him.}     You  horrid  traitor  ! 

PROSP.     I  think  I've  caught  you  now. 

Suz.   (aside).     Don't  make  too  sure  of  that. 

Enter  ZENO.  and  MATH.,  from  the  dining-room,  R.  2  E.,  then 
BRISK.,  then  BAP.  and  PAUL.  BAP.  places  tray  with  coffee, 
etc.,  on  table,  R.  c. ;  LOUISE,  Suz.,  and  PROSP.  group 
themselves  near  it.  MATH,  and  ZENO.  sit  on  settee,  L.  c., 
the  BARON  in  front  of  them.  PAUL,  stands  ate.,  up  stage, 
waiting  to  serve  coffee,  which  during  scene  she  passes. 
During  the  following  BRISE.  is  alone  in  front,  holding  a 
piece  of  paper  in  his  hand  ;  he  is  slightly  intoxicated. 

BRISK,  (down  L.  c.).  It  is  a  love  letter  ! — a  love  letter  to 
Zenobie  !  I  shouldn't  have  believed  it,  if  I  hadn't  seen— with 
my  own  eyes  seen — the  young  woman  slip  it  under  her 
plate.  (Reads.')  "I  am  obliged  to  leave  home  by  daylight, 
dearest  love."  Now,  who  the  deuce  could  ever  call  Zenobie 
"  dearest  love  "  ?  (Reads  again.}  "  But  far  or  near,  my  soul* 
will  follow  thine."  All  this  to  Zenobie  !  It  is  incredible  !  but 
here  it  is.  Ah,  here's  a  chance — if  I  could  but  get  rid  of 
Zenobie — force  the  fellow  to  marry  her — what  a  piece  of  good 
luck  it  would  be.  (Folds  the  paper  in  two.} 

BARON  (coming  down  c.,  with  a  cup  of  coffee  in  his  hand). 
Don't  you  take  coffee? 

BRISK,  (aside}.  Ah — an  idea  !  (Gives paper  to  the  BARON.) 
Do  you  know  that  handwriting? 

BARON.  This  ?  (As  he  opens  the  paper  PROSP.  is  coming 
down  between  them  a  little  to  rear  with  a  cup  of  coffee  in  his 
hand,  and  observes  the  BARON  reading  the  reverse  side  to  that 
read  by  BRISK.)  "  They  wanted  to  send  me  away,  but  I  have 
returned." 

BRISK.  Nonsense — "returned" — he  said  he  was  obliged 
to  go. 

BARON  (continuing  to  read}.  "They  say  I  must  continue 
my  studies." 


64  A  SCRAP  OF  PAPER 

(PROSP.  recognizes  bit  of  paper  and  watches  intently  while  calmly 
sipping  his  coffee,  unobserved  by  BRISE.  or  the  BARON.) 

BRISE.     Nonsense — "  studies  " — no,  no — "  dearest  love." 
BARON.     No — "  studies  " — it  is  written  in  pencil ! 
BRISE.     No — "dearest  love" — in  ink.     (Takes  letter  and 
turns  over  to  the  other  side.)     There — it  is  there ! 

(Gives  back  letter  to  the  BARON.) 
PROSP.  (coming  down  hastily].     The  letter  ! 
(Snatches  it  from  the  BARON.) 

BARON  (R.,  still  laughing).  Come,  let's  see  this  wonderful 
letter. 

PROSP.  (c.).     No,  no;  I  can't  allow  it. 

BRISE.   (L.).     But  why? 

PROSP.  (quietly  finishing  his  cup  of  coffee).  Because  I  don't 
want  to  admit  everybody  into  my  confidence. 

(Gives  his  empty  cup  to  BRISE.  to  hold.) 

BRISE.     Then  you  wrote  that  letter  ? 

PROSP.     Well,  and  if  I  did  ? 

BRISE.  What !  unworthy  friend,  you  have  taken  advantage 
of  being  under  my  roof,  to  make  love  to  Zenobie — delude  her 
innocence 

BARON.     He  !  make  love  to  Zenobie  ? 

BRISE.  But,  of  course,  he  will  take  her  off  of  my  hands— I 
mean  marry  her  ? 

BARON  {giving  his  empty  cup  to  BRISE.  to  hold).  WThat  does 
all  this  mean,  sir?  This  morning  you  make  love  to  Mathilde 
— this  evening,  you  promise  to  marry  Suzanne — and  all  the 
while  you  are  making  love  to  Zenobie. 

BRISE.     Don't  you  call  Zenobie  "dearest  love  "? 

PROSP.     Never  dreamed  of  such  a  thing  ! 

BRISE.*  But  the  proof  is  that  scrap  of  paper. 

BARON.     Yes — show  us  the  scrap  of  paper — what  is  it? 

PROSP.     As  you  say — a  mere  scrap  of  paper. 

(Shows  it  behind  his  back  to  Suz. ) 

Suz.  (to  LOUISE,  alarmed).     It  is  the  letter  ! 

LOUISE  (alarmed).     The  letter  ! 

PROSP.  (coolly).     But  as  you  seem  to  attach  some  mystery 


A   SCRAP  OF  PAPER  65 

to  this  scrap  of  paper,  I  request  Mademoiselle  Suzanne — my 
wife — to  judge  of  its  contents.  (Holds  out  paper  to  Suz.) 

BARON  (seizing  letter  to  the  a/arm  o/ PROSP.  and  Suz.}.  So 
be  it — Suzanne  shall  read  and  judge  ! 

Suz.  (coming  down  to  R.  of  PROSP.).  It  is  unnecessary — 
quite.  1  know  what  it  contains.  (Takes  the  paper.) 

BARON.     You  know? 

Suz.     Yes — a  mere  bit  of  folly — a  joke. 

BRISE.  A  joke  !  a  joke  !  The  chance  of  getting  rid  of  Zeno- 
bie  is  no  joke  ! 

BARON.  Beware,  Suzanne — your  life's  happiness  may  be 
concerned.  (Crosses  to  Suz.) 

Suz.  Well,  even  if  it  be?  (Gives  paper  to  PROSP.,  R.,  and 
takes  a  lighted  candle  from  table  R.  c.,  and  holds  it  to  him.) 
Burn  it,  my  good  friend. 

BARON.     Suzanne  ! 

Suz.   (holding  candle).     Burn — burn  ! 

BARON.  Ah  !  you're  a  happy  man  to  marry  such  a  woman 
who  trusts  you  so  implicitly. 

PROSP.  I  know  I  am.  (Burns  the  letter  and  puts  the  taper 
on  one  of  the  coffee  cups  held  by  BRISE. — looking  at  the  ashes  of 
letter.  BARON  goes  up  R.  to  LOUISE.)  Oh  !  you  confounded 
little  rascal  of  a  scrap  of  paper,  what  a  peck  of  troubles  you 
have  put  me  in. 

BRISE.  (L.,  holding  the  two  cups  of  coffee  and  taper}.  I  take 
my  oath  I  saw  the  words  "  dearest  love." 

ZENO.  (coming  down  L.  c.).     What's  that  you  are  saying? 

Suz.  (R.).  My  dear  Mademoiselle  Zenobie,  I've  a  piece  of 
pleasant  intelligence  to  communicate.  We've  just  made  up  a 
match  between  Monsieur  Anatole 

ZENO.   (simpering).     Oh  !  dear — spare  my  feelings  ! 

Suz.     And  my  little  cousin  Mathilde. 

AN  AT.  (springing  forward  from  the  bushes,  R.).  Oh! 
what  joy  !  (  Crosses  L.,  to  seat  beside  MATH.) 

ZENO.  (aside}.     The  little  wretch  was  there  all  the  time. 

AN  AT.   (kissing  the  hand  of  MATH.).     I  am  so  happy. 

PROSP.   (to  Suz.).     And  so  am  I. 

(They  come  down  to  R.  corner  hand  in  hand.) 

WARN  curtain. 

Suz.  (low  to  him}.  I  have  no  doubt  you  are.  You  have 
given  your  word  to  start  to-night  for  the  Cannibal  Islands, 


66  A   SCRAP  OF  PAPER 

PROSP.     By  all  means — but  not  without  ray  wife. 

Suz.     What !  do  you  want  to  eat  me  up  ! 

PROSP.     With  love  ! 

LOUISE  (coming  down  R.),  Suzanne,  you  must  give  in,  you 
Know. 

Suz.  (smiling),  Well,  it  seems  fated  I  am  to  sacrifice  my- 
self for  others. 

PROSP.     Yes ;  to  insure  my  happiness. 

LOUISE.     Your  own  as  well. 

RING  slow  curtain* 

PROSP.     And  the  contentment  of  all  around,  I  trust. 
Suz.  (looking  at  the  ashe*).     And  all  on  account  of  a  mere 
xrap  of  paper  1 

BARON  Suz. 

BAP.  PAUL. 

LoviaE  PROSP. 

ANA-*.  ZENO. 

MATH.  BRIS. 

a.  C.  L. 


CURTAIL 


Memory  Lane 


With  the  Fragrance  of  Salt  Water  Breezes 

A  Comedy  in  Three  Acts 

By  Roland  Oliver 

A  Cape  Cod  play  and  a  delightful  one.  The  scene  is  laid 
in  Quantam  in  Obadiah  Gray's  general  store.  Obadiah  has 
two  daughters,  half-sisters:  one,  Vangie,  a  coy  young  thing; 
the  other,  Hester,  as  charming  a  girl  as  may  be  found.  The 
play  opens  at  the  beginning  of  the  war.  Robert  Perry,  a 
young  engineer,  having  done  big  things  for  his  town,  has 
enlisted.  He  intends  to  propose  to  Hester  before  going 
away  but  through  a  misunderstanding  he  fails  to  do  so. 
His  departure  leaves  the  path  to  romance  open  for  one 
Jonah,  local  newspaper  editor  and  real  estate  operator.  Six 
years  after  the  war,  Robert,  now  a  well-known  and  success- 
ful engineer,  returns  to  a  rejuvenated  village,  gets  himself 
engaged  to  Vangie,  becomes  disengaged,  and  after  a  hectic 
time  sets  things  right  to  the  happy  culmination  of  his  ro- 
mance with  Hester.  In  the  woof  of  the  play  are  many  in- 
teresting happenings, — a  venture  in  antiques,  small  town 
gossip,  politics  and  a  varied  assortment  of  character  types. 
Obadiah,  frankly  a  hick;  Jonah,  a  shrewd  Yankee  putting 
on  city  airs;  Mrs.  Gordyn,  a  fashionable  summer  visitor; 
her  callow  son  Willie.  You'll  chuckle  with  delight  at  the 
"  mooning "  between  Willie  and  Vangie,  Hester,  good  to 
look  at,  and  Rob,  an  up  and  coming  young  professional 
man.  A  play  of  Broadway  tendencies,  good  enough  for  the 
best  dramatic  clubs  and  not  too  difficult  for  any  group  that 
wants  to  give  a  real  honest-to-goodness  play  that  will  prove 
to  be  an  outstanding  success. 

CHARACTERS 

Hester  Gray. 

Evangeline,  her  younger  half-sister. 

Mrs.  J.  Lester  Gordyn. 

Robert  Perry,  a  civil  engineer. 

Willie  Gordyn. 

Jonah  Crowe,  a  politician. 

Obadiah  Gray,  father  of  the  two  girls. 

ACT  I.      Gray's  general  store,  June,  1917. 

ACT  II.    Gray    &    Crowe's    antique    store.      (Same    set.) 

September,  1924. 

ACT  III.  The  same,  the  same  evening. 
PLAYING  TIME:   Two  and  one-quarter  hours. 

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Books  Fifty  Cents  Each 


Cat  O'Nine  Tails 


Something  New — The  Mystery  Frappe 
By  Laurence  G.  Worcester 

At  last  we  have  it — the  ideal  mystery  play  for  amateurs. 
But  wait  a  minute  and  listen  to  this  recipe.  Take  one  cold- 
blooded murder,  add  to  it  a  human  skeleton,  referred  to  as 
off-stage,  blood  curdling  shrieks,  unearthly  noises,  a  female 
Sherlock  Holmes,  a  half-witted  servant,  a  jealous  woman, 
an  underground  tunnel,  a  vicious  dog,  heard  but  not  seen, 
a  nervous  wreck,  a  beautiful  girl,  an  international  crook, 
flavor  with  comedy  and  sweeten  with  a  secret  love  affair. 
Pour  into  a  lonely  lodge,  shake  well  and  serve  with  thunder 
and  lightning  and  you'll  enjoy  the  taste  of  this  newest 
beverage,  the  mystery  frappe.  Can  easily  be  played  in  one 
interior  by  using  a  reverse  scene. 

"  /  might  add  that  this  play,  CAT  O'NINE  TAILS,  has  been  voted 
the  best  done  and  best  liked  play  ever  put  on  at  the  Academy,  where 
we  have  been  unusually  successful  in  the  matter  of  dramatic  per- 
formance, including,  IT  PAYS  TO  ADVERTISE,  NOTHING  BUT 
THE  TRUTH,  CLARENCE,  ON  THE  HIRING  LINE,  and  a  large 
number  of  royalty  one-act  programs.  No  high  school  with  any  kind 
of  stage  equipment  should  pass  up  this  play."  Utica,  New  York. 

CAST 

James  Gordon,  Sr.,  master  of  "  Gordon  Lodge." 

Mrs.  James  Gordon,  his  nervous  wife. 

Jimmie  Gordon,  their  "  good-looking  "  boy. 

Jacob  Webber,  the  caretaker  of  "  Gordon  Lodge." 

Betty  Webber,  his  lovable  daughter. 

Theodora  Maitland,  a  friend  of  the  Gordons. 

Henry,  the  chore  boy. 

Fox,  a  detective. 

Miss  Smith,  a  female  "  Sherlock  Holmes." 

Bridget,  the  cook. 

Peggy,  her  daughter. 

Cat  O'Nine  Tails     .     .     .     ? 

ACT  I.      Living-room    in   the   "  Gordon   Lodge,"    near   the 

Canadian  line  in  Maine.     .     .     And  the  clock 

strikes  twelve. 
ACT  II.    Same     .     .     .     the  next  night.     .     .     .     And  the 

villain  appears. 
ACT  III.  An  underground  room  of  the  lodge,  a  few  minutes 

later.     .     .     And    the    mystery    is    solved. 

GOODNIGHT. 

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Climbing  Roses 


A  Farcical  Mirthquake  in  Three  Acts 
By  Eugene  G.  Hafer 

We  heartily  recommend  this  as  one  of  the  most  uproar- 
iously funny,  intensely  interesting  and  charming  plays  in 
print.  The  rapid-fire  action  achieves  a  tremendously  force- 
ful climax,  and  all  of  the  characters  are  delightful.  The 
cast  comprises  very  common  but  warm-hearted  Maggie  Rose 
and  her  crude  husband  Jim  Rose,  whose  efforts  to  effect  an 
entrance  into  high  society  will  convulse  any  audience; 
dynamic  Peggy  Rose,  a  common  little  rosebud,  who  also 
strives  to  climb  the  social  trellis;  pretty  Hazel  Sommers, 
who  has  a  fondness  for  orange  blossoms;  excitable  Priscilla 
Prentice,  an  unpicked  dandelion;  Mrs.  Warren,  a  leader  in 
society;  Joyce  Belmont,  a  hothouse  orchid;  Winnie  Clarke, 
a  pretty  little  neighborhood  pest;  Jack  Archer,  America's 
foremost  author,  over  whose  expected  coming  the  town  is 
agog  but  who  is  working  incognito  as  yardman  for  the 
lowly  Roses;  Ferdie  Wimbledon,  not  a  candidate  for  orange 
blossoms;  loud-mouthed  Dryden  Proonis,  the  town  sport, 
who  is  decidedly  not  a  shrinking  violet;  and  Percy  South- 
worth,  a  meek  acorn  striving  to  be  a  dominant  oak. 

CHARACTERS 

Peggy  Rose,  a  common  little  rosebud. 

Maggie  Rose,  her  aunt. 

Hazel  Sommers,  who  has  a  fondness  for  orange  blos- 
soms. 

Priscilla  Prentice,  an  unpicked  dandelion. 

Mrs.  Warren,  a  leader  in  society. 

Joyce  Belmont,  a  hothouse  orchid. 

Winnie  Clarke,  a  little  neighborhood  pest. 

Jack  Archer,  alias  Watson.    Who  cultivates  the  Roses. 

Ferdie  Wimbledon,  not  a  candidate  for  orange  blossoms. 

Jim  Rose,  Maggie's  husband.     Common  garden  variety. 

Dryden  Proonis,  not  a  shrinking  violet. 

Percy  Southworth,  a  very  dominant  young  man. 

And  three  extra  men  for  bit  parts.  Ferdie,  Dryden  and 
Percy  can  easily  double  for  these  character  parts. 

SCENE:    Living-room  in  the  home  of  Peggy  Rose. 
TIME:      The  present.     Spring. 

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Meet  Uncle  Sally 


A  Gigantic  Snowball  of  Farce  Situations 

A  Comedy  in  Three  Acts 

By  Jay  Tobias 

Here  is  a  new  play  that  bids  fair  to  out-distance  in 
popularity  such  wonderful  successes  as  "  The  Arrival  of 
Kitty "  and  "  Charley's  Aunt."  It  is  one  of  those  rare 
and  really  funny  plays  which  acts  itself,  is  always  a  suc- 
cess and  has  to  be  repeated.  Every  member  of  the  cast 
has  a  hit  part.  There's  action  every  minute  with  excru- 
ciatingly funny  situations  and  a  smooth  running  dialogue 
which  is  easy  to  memorize  and  natural  to  give.  When 
Sally  agrees  to  impersonate  the  millionaire  uncle  of  Ben 
and  Betty,  she  little  knows  of  the  rocks  ahead.  The  fact 
that  the  real  Uncle  arrives  in  person  merely  adds  to  the 
general  joyousness  of  the  situation.  Three  pretty 
romances  are  woven  into  the  plot,  another  one  is  of  the 
ridiculously  overdrawn  sort  in  which  Aunt  Dorinda  and 
Miss  Muggs  lay  siege  to  the  heart  of  at  times  Uncle  Sally 
and  again  Uncle  Bill.  Jennie,  the  Swede  cook,  is  the 
funniest  character  part  in  any  modern  play.  Snorkins,  a 
Cockney  butler,  is  the  other  half  of  this  comedy  team.  It 
is  difficult  to  conceive  situations  out  of  which  the  humor 
has  been  more  completely  wrung  than  those  introduced  in 
"  Meet  Uncle  Sally."  Clean  as  a  whistle,  easy  to  produce, 
no  scenery  or  costume  problems  to  be  met  and  a  SUCCESS. 

CHARACTERS 

Ben  Blayne,  a  young  lawyer. 

Betty  Blayne,  his  sister. 

Jennie,  a  Swede  cook. 

Sally  Sherwood,  a  college  student. 

Bob  Durant,  Betty's  fiance. 

Snorkins,  a  Cockney  butler. 

Elaine  Durant,  Ben's  fiancee. 

Aunt  Dorinda,  Bob  and  Elaine's  aunt. 

Dr.  Jimmy  Snodgrass,  an  osteopath. 

Miss  Muggs,  Dean  of  Ketcham  College. 

Reverend  Wright,  a  preacher. 

William  Hawkins,  Ben  and  Betty's  uncle. 

ACT  I.      Living-room  at  the  Blaynes',  about  four-thirty 

of  an  autumn  afternoon. 
ACT  II.    Same  as  Act  I.     One  hour  later. 
ACT  III.  The  same.     Three  minutes  later. 

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Here  Comes  Patricia 


An  Uproarious  and  Charming  Play 
By  Eugene  G.  Hafer 

On  a  certain  spring  morning  the  whole  population  of 
the  town  of  Fern  Lawn  gasps  to  see  a  pretty,  nineteen- 
year-old,  overall-clad  girl  in  charge  of  the  local  filling 
station.  Inquiry  reveals  that  she  is  Patricia  Hammond. 
Within  a  week  she  is  twice  threatened  with  being  driven 
out  of  town  by  the  indignant  townspeople.  Never  hav- 
ing been  driven  out  of  any  town  before,  Patricia 
views  the  prospect  with  delighted  enthusiasm.  To  Jimmy 
Clark,  a  newcomer,  is  assigned  the  dismaying  task  of 
getting  rid  of  her.  What  luck  he  has  is  all  bad.  To 
add  to  his  troubles,  Jimmy  falls  in  love  with  the  little 
nuisance.  About  this  time  the  whole  town  is  agog  over  the 
expected  coming  of  the  governor  of  the  state  and  his 
daughter.  The  big  night  arrives.  Wild  enthusiasm  reigns 
as  a  mammoth  parade,  colored  flares,  and  cheering  throngs 
greet  the  distinguished  guests.  Then  out  of  the  car  of 
honor,  leaning  on  the  governor's  arm,  steps  the  governor's 
daughter — Patricia!  Mrs.  Smith-Porter,  the  town  aris- 
tocracy; Tim  Hopper,  the  "  drawly "  town  loafer;  coy, 
persistent  Elsie  Crowder;  long-suffering,  much-abused  El- 
bert  Hastings;  homely  Bud  Flannigan,  upon  whom  Angelina 
and  Minnie  Knoop  have  matrimonial  designs;  peppery 
Adam  Wade;  Jimmy  and  unsquelchable  Patricia — all  are 
splendid  roles. 

CHARACTERS 

Mrs.  Carrol,  a  pleasant,  motherly  old  widow. 

Elsie  Crowder,  a  pretty  young  neighbor. 

Mrs.  Smith-Porter,  the  town  aristocracy. 

Angelina  Knoop,  another  young  neighbor — not  so  pretty. 

Minnie  Knoop,  Angelina's  cousin. 

Patricia  Grayson,  daughter  of  the  governor. 

Jimmy  Clark,  a  newcomer  in  Fern  Lawn. 

Elbert  Hastings,  a  much  abused  member  of  the  governor's 
staff. 

Adam  Wade,  Jimmy's  peppery  boss. 

Tim  Hopper,  the  town's  bad  example. 

Bud  Flannigan,  a  young  man — evidently  Irish. 

SCENE:    Living-room  in  the  home  of  Mrs.   Carrol  in 
Fern  Lawn. 

TIME:       The  Present.     Spring. 

PLAYING   TIME:    Approximately   two   and    a   quarter 
hours. 

Royalty  Only  Ten  Dollars 

Kaeh  Amateur  Performance 
Books  Fifty  Cents  Each 


The  Restless  Jewel 


A  Merry  Melodramatic  Mystery  in  Three  Acts 

By  Adam  Applebud  (Carl  Pierce) 
Five  Men  Seven  Women  Two  Interior  Sets 

Following  the  huge  success  of  OH,  KAY!  Adam  Apple- 
bud  has  written  by  popular  request,  another  play  of  the 
melodramatic  mystery  type  with  plenty  of  comedy,  giving 
us  another  of  the  adventures  of  Kay  Millis,  the  girl  detec- 
tive. The  plot  is  full  of  surprises  which  are  legitimately 
introduced  and  logically  worked  out  which  is  something 
which  cannot  be  said  for  all  plays  of  this  type.  The  char- 
acters are  diversified.  For  instance  we  have  a  pair  of  love- 
sick newlyweds,  a  gentle  old  lady,  several  crooks,  prosper- 
ous business  men,  a  facetious  salesman  and  others.  Some 
of  them  may  not  be  what  they  seem  at  the  start  but  you 
never  suspect  it  before  the  finish  or  rather  you'll  suspect 
everyone  from  the  start.  There  are  thrills,  surprises,  love 
scenes,  hilarious  comedy,  emotional  scenes,  all  skillfully 
put  together  to  form  a  swiftly  moving,  fascinating  play. 
Clubs  seeking  a  play  of  surprises,  will  thrill  to  one  climax 
after  another  and  one  where  smiles  will  round  into 
chuckles  and  chuckles  into  uproarious  laughter,  cannot  do 
better  than  to  send  for  a  copy  of  this  sure-fire  winner. 

CHARACTERS 

Albert  Tisbury. 

Aunt  Hetty. 

Gracie,  her  niece. 

Kay  Millis,  of  the  Millis  Detective  Agency. 

"  Jersey  Jennie." 

Margaret  Tisbury,  sister-in-law  of  Albert. 

Robert  Blank. 

Gerald  Gardiner. 

Nan  Blank,  Robert's  wife. 

Emma,  the  Blanks'  maid. 

Rupert  Schools. 

Policeman. 

ACT  I.  A  corner  of  the  waiting-room  of  the  Pennsyl- 
vania Station,  New  York  City.  Five  O'Clock. 

ACT  II.  Living-room  at  the  Blank  residence  in  a  New 
York  suburb.  About  an  hour  later. 

ACT  III.  Same  as  Act  II.     A  few  minutes  later. 

Royalty  Only  Ten  Dollars 

Each  Amateur  Performance 
Books  Fifty  Cents  Each 


Lady  Lilac 


The  Further  Adventures  of  Cat  O'  Nine  Tails 

A  Play  in  Three  Acts 

By  Lawrence  G.  Worcester 

Five  Men  SLY  Women  One  Interior  Set 

Here  at  last  is  the  ideal  mystery  play  for  amateurs  de- 
void of  gruesomeness,  of  tricky  mechanics  and  gun  play, 
but  holding  the  desirable  qualities  of  uniqueness  of  plot, 
suspense,  curiosity,  comedy,  drama  and  romance.  To  those 
clubs  which  have  successfully  produced  the  author's  earlier 
mystery  play  CAT  O'  NINE  TAILS,  LADY  LILAC  is  es- 
pecially recommended,  for  here  the  adventures  of  CAT  O' 
NINE  TAILS  are  further  exploited.  The  plot  stories,  though, 
are  entirely  differentiated.  The  only  clue  to  the  solving 
of  the  murder  of  Capt.  Lane  is  the  faint  fragrance  of  lilac 
perfume.  Is  it  enough,  though,  to  fasten  the  crime  on? 
The  cast  is  variously  characterized.  Every  member  of  it 
has  a  splendid  opportunity  to  create  a  star  role.  There's 
a  lady  detective;  a  rube  constable;  the  mysterious  land- 
lord; the  young,  good-looking  hotel  clerk;  Speedy,  the 
Swede  chore  boy;  a  wise-cracking  traveling  salesman; 
young,  pretty  and  vivacious  girls,  guests  at  the  inn;  a 
French  girl  (dialect  part)  strongly  enmeshed  in  the  queer 
goings  on;  Mrs.  Ware,  a  dowager  type,  and  a  woman  in 
black — who  is  she? 

CHARACTERS 

Miss  Smith,  a  female  "  Sherlock  Holmes." 

Hi  Periwinkle,  the  town  constable. 

Richard  Lane,  the  proprietor  of  "  Lilac  Inn." 

Emery  Potter,  the  hotel  clerk. 

Speedy,  the  Swedish  chore  boy. 

Horace  Hathaway,  the  traveling  salesman. 

Maybelle  Mason,  a  guest. 

Dorothy  Wingate,  a  guest. 

Josephine  Bonaparte,  the  French  tennis  champion. 

Florabelle  Williamsburg,  a  guest. 

Mrs.  Ware,  a  guest. 

ACT  I.  The  combination  office  and  living-room  at  "  Lilac 
Lake  Inn,"  near  the  Canadian  border  in  a  re- 
mote part  of  Maine.  A  morning  in  summer. 

ACT  II.    The  same.     Late  afternoon  of  the  same  day. 

ACT  III.  The  same.     Immediately  afterwards. 

Royalty  Only  Ten  Dollars 

Each   Amateur  Performance 
Books  Fifty  Cents  Each 


Si    l  ess  Insura 


Or  What  the 


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PRACTICAL  blAGECRAFT 

An  illustrated  manual  for  Lit*, 
and  directors  of  school  dramatics.    1 
Hynes.    The  author's  preface    '        ».* 
description  that  can  be   writt.. 
dramatic  tO9L    "  My  aim  is  to  t. 
the  fascinating  art  of  play  produc 
of  fundamental  technique  that  wou 
experienced  worker  to  solve  *he  p 
of  setting,   costuming  and  si  *ging 
presented  those  facts  that  I  have  i 
perience  on  the  professional  stage  s 
ing  field  to  be  fundamentals  «.-f  tr 
tion;  and  I  hare  sought  to  treai  t 
and  non-technical  manner,   so  that 
prove  as  usable  to  the  amateur  as  tt 
sional."     CONTENTS:     Organization, 


*    ~kei 

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-kabl 
icr  e 
.dboo 
the  it 
oblei 
hav 
ny  ej 
teacl 
prpdu* 
simp) 
,ook   ma 
ae  profe; 

.-.  .     Designin 

Scenery  and  Model  Making,  Building  and  Paintin 
Scenery,  Handling  Scenery,  L>*>t;v  -.s  c 

Dyeing  and  Ornamentation,  Design*,. 6  auu  Makic 
Costumes,  Designing  and  Making  Costume  Accessories  and  Propertie 
Make-up,  Production  Management — Front  and  Back  Stage. 

Price,  board  bindings,  $1.00  Postpai< 

TIME  TO  MAKE  TIP 

By  Richard  B.  Whorf.  \^i^  ,.  t^uic  of  coi 
siderable  worth  to  the  people  of  the  theatre,  bol 
amateur  and  professional.  Make-up  is  an  art,  d 
manding  real  skill  and  Mr.  Whorf  is  not  on! 
adept  in  it  but  is  also  a  practical  teacher  of  i 
use.  Every  conceivable  phase  ^f  t^»  art  is  e: 
plained  in  this  book  both  by  wor  T>j^«-ures  a^c  t 
the  almost  one  hundred  pen  and  j  vetch  s  ski! 
fully  drawn  by  the  author  artist,  n.  expla.ns  tl: 
reasons  for  using  make-up  carefully — tells  of  tl 
materials  necessary  and  of  the  rr  Miods  of  appl 
ing  them  to  obtain  any  desired  c  There  ai 

chapters  on  the  use  of  false  no'  taches,  wig 

beards  and  how  to  make  up  t  ds  and  arm 

Every   type   of   national   chart  a    defined   ar 

directions     for     making    up  carefully    give: 

Special    type   characters   such    as    '       *a    Glaus    ar 
minstrels  are  covered.     This  is  freed  fro 

all    technicalities,    written    in  ^nd   conci; 

Style,  lavishly  illustrated,   well  printed   and   attract!  1. 

Price,  board  "  Postpai 


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